


6 Simple Rules For Dating John Watson

by prettysailorsoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cheating, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Roommates, Teenlock, Unilock, not between John and Sherlock though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 81,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9060157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: John Watson's love life may have had its ups and downs, but at least it had some structure. That is, until Sherlock Holmes showed up on his doorstep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short little Christmas fic and turned into The Chamber of Secrets, to no one's surprise...

Sherlock should have seen this coming.

In a way, he supposed he had, the lingering glances and smiles Victor exchanged with professors, baristas, and every man in between during their eight-month relationship hardly subtle, but, since Victor had suggested he move in two months ago instead of renewing his lease, he’d noticed a steep decline in that behavior, the man back in their shared bed every night instead of calling Sherlock with a flimsy excuse while club music pounded in the background.

What Sherlock hadn’t realized, however, was that he wasn’t the only one sharing that bed, a fact he was confronted with rather abruptly when he opened the bedroom door to find one of the Imperial College library attendants with his legs in the air, and Victor between them.

For a moment, everyone froze, Victor and Dewey Decimal gaping at him while he couldn’t look away, and then they all moved at once, Sherlock backing out the door as the naked portion of the trio scrambled to cover up.

“Sherlock!” Victor called out behind him, but Sherlock didn’t stop, already through the kitchen before Victor caught up, grappling at his arm while Sherlock fought to keep it free.

“Let _go_!” Sherlock snarled with a jerk of his wrist, spinning around to face the man, who was still naked apart from thin grey boxers that more showcased than concealed his flagging erection.

Victor huffed, rolling his eyes, a patronizing gesture that narrowed Sherlock’s eyes to slits. “I’m _trying_ to explain,” he said, but Sherlock only scoffed.

“No, I think I got it,” he spat. “The spread-eagle fresher on the bed explained things quite thoroughly.”

“He’s in his second semester,” Victor countered, and it was Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes, though with slightly more cause.

“Oh, well, in that case, please”—he waved a hand toward the bedroom door, which was cracked just enough to see a shadow moving beyond—“don’t let me interrupt.”

“Sherlock-” Victor sighed, but Sherlock turned away, attempting take two of his storm-out.

“Anything I can get you while I’m out?” he tossed back over his shoulder, bracing a hand against the doorframe as he shoved his socked feet back into his shoes. “Milk? Toilet roll? A moral compass?”

“Oh, come on, Sherls, don’t be like that,” Victor urged, the nickname Sherlock had always disliked now skyrocketing straight to hate. “You think I don’t feel bad about this? I didn’t mean for it to happen, I just- We ran into one another at the library, and one thing led to another, and… It didn’t mean anything,” he assured, or was trying to, at least, moving to stand in front of Sherlock as he battled with his footwear. “I just- Well, you’ve been in the lab so much lately,” he murmured, and Sherlock stilled, watching through his lashes as Victor scraped a nail over the flaking front door paint. “With- With your professor...”

Sherlock straightened up, a single brow rising. “My 47-year-old, married-to-a-woman professor?” he asked, eyes blinking wide when Victor nodded. “But that- That’s not-”

“I know, I know!” Victor interjected, running a hand through his hair as he turned away, pacing a short distance before twisting back. “It doesn’t make any sense, but I- I dunno, I just- You make me _crazy_!” he implored, shaking his head helplessly as he met Sherlock’s eyes. “When I think about losing you, I-”

“Pick up men in libraries?” Sherlock offered, and Victor dropped his face, shaking his head at the welcome mat.

“Okay, I-I know that was wrong,” he murmured, lifting his chin to meet Sherlock’s eyes, “and I feel awful, really; I never wanted you to find out.”

“Comforting,” Sherlock grumbled, reaching for the door handle, but Victor blocked the way, Sherlock’s hand stopping short in front of the man’s bare chest.

“Because it didn’t mean anything,” Victor seemed to think he clarified, though Sherlock failed to see the relevance, but his biting retort was lost in shock as Victor took his outstretched hand, tangling their fingers together. “I didn’t want to hurt you over something that didn’t matter.”

Sherlock snorted, attempting to twist his hand free, but Victor held fast, his other hand providing reinforcements as he clasped them around Sherlock’s fingers like a prayer.

“But, in a way, maybe this was a good thing,” he barreled relentlessly on, Sherlock forgetting to struggle as his mouth dropped open. “Now we don’t have any more secrets. You know what’s going on with me; I know what’s going on with your professor-“

“ _Nothing_ is going on with my professor!” Sherlock raged, but Victor only smiled, lowering their still-entangled hands.

“No,” he affirmed, shaking his head, “but I didn’t know that.”

Sherlock stared at the man, indignation slowly giving way to horror as he recognized the prickling bud of guilt beginning to blossom deep in his chest, and, for the first time in all three years he’d known the man, he saw him for what he truly was—forked tongue and all.

Victor frowned, tilting his head as a spark of trepidation flickered through his hazel eyes. “What?” he asked, and Sherlock took a faltering step back, his hand meeting no resistance now as he slipped it loose.

“I didn’t make you cheat,” he said, so softly, it was almost to himself, but Victor heard him well enough, huffing a frail laugh as he shook his head.

“No, of-of course not!” he replied, taking a step forward that Sherlock matched with a retreat. “That’s not what I said at all!”

“Not in so many words,” Sherlock rejoined, the ice in his tone causing something to change in Victor’s expression, a momentary slip of the façade before concern returned to the creases on his face.

“Sherlock, what are you talking about?” he questioned gently, the way one might try to soothe a rabid animal as it snarled through the bars. “I never said you made me cheat. I don’t know what would make you think-”

“I have to go,” Sherlock interjected, sweeping past and grasping the door handle, desperate for clean air to quell his rolling nausea, but Victor’s palm covered the deadbolt before he could unlatch it.

“Wait!” he nearly snarled, eyes blazing as they bored into Sherlock’s. “You’re really just going to walk out? Just like that, without even trying to fix things?” he blustered, and Sherlock scanned between his eyes, trying to make himself feel some sense of loss, but the truth was that he’d never been mad, hadn’t even been surprised, his pantomime of outrage played out purely on principle, and he let it drop now, challenging Victor’s gaze with a hard, cold glare.

“Yep,” he clipped, lips popping over the terminal consonant, and Victor’s slack-jawed expression was the last thing he saw before brushing the man’s hand aside and throwing himself out the door, only his book bag and righteous fury in tow.

He was two blocks away before the gravity of the situation sunk in, and slowed his stride, walking toward the nearest cross street to get his bearings as he thought.

His wallet, laptop, mobile, and necessary chargers were all in the bag hanging from his shoulder, so that was something, at least, but he had only the clothes on his back, and the jeans, thin royal blue sweater, and coat, though comfortable, would soon prove ineffective against the late-November chill as the sun sank lower in the sky. To make matters worse, the clouds overhead had been gradually darkening over the past few hours, thickening with inevitable rain, and, sure enough, as Sherlock neared the corner, he felt a drop land heavy on his head, a shiver running down his spine as the water wound its way to his scalp.

Ducking under a bright orange awning of the corner Sainsbury’s, Sherlock pulled out his mobile, squinting through the building rain to read the street signs, and then realized he didn’t need them, recognizing the path his feet seemed to have subconsciously trekked. He held down the appropriate speed dial key—which would probably be promoted from 3 to 2 after Victor was deleted—and lifted the receiver to his ear, shifting his weight between his feet as the damp cold began to creep into his limbs.

“Sherlock?” a voice answered, tinged with panic. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I- Nothing,” he replied, shaking his head out at the damp street, the festive light-wrapped lampposts reflecting in streaks off passing cabs. “I was just- Are you home?”

“Yes,” the man answered warily. “Seriously, what’s wrong? Is this your one phone call? Have you been kidnapped?!”

“What?”

“Say ‘Jaffa Cakes’ if you’re under duress.”

“I’m not- Why Jaffa Cakes?”

“I’m in the kitchen; they were the first thing I saw.”

“Not a very subtle code word, is it?”

“Sherlock.”

He sighed, pulling his coat tighter across his chest as he watched shoppers race toward the underground, bending over their purchases to shield them from the downpour. “I just- Can I...come over?” he murmured, cringing at the fragility in his voice. “To your flat? In about seven minutes?”

“Yes, you can come over to my flat in about seven minutes,” came the man’s perfunctory reply, “but what-”

“I’ll tell you when I get there,” Sherlock interjected with no intention to do so, continuing briskly on before the man could formulate a reply. “I have to go; my mobile’s getting wet,” he muttered, hanging up the moment the last syllable passed his lips, and then stowed the phone back into his bag with a whir of the metal zipper.

Not sure if he trusted water ‘resistant’ to protect his electronics, Sherlock lifted the bag from his shoulder, leaning it against his calf as he stripped off his coat, and then tossed the book bag back over his arm, putting the coat on overtop to better protect the precious cargo. Doing up the buttons, he took a deep breath, looking determinedly down the road before breaking out into the storm, turning his collar up in vain against the pounding deluge.

Taking the last two blocks at a run, Sherlock managed to shave a minute off his ETA, but his host was already waiting, the door of 221B Baker Street swinging inward while he was still several meters away.

John Watson filled the doorway, wearing a smirk and a thick knitted jumper the color of coffee mixed with too much milk. “You get the license number?” he called through the rain, folding his arms and leaning a hip against the doorjamb as Sherlock neared the steps.

“What?” he bellowed back, leaping the steps as one and launching himself into the foyer, and John chuckled, closing the door behind him with a gentle _click_ of the lock.

“Of the lorry that ran you over,” he quipped, and Sherlock sneered, ruffling a hand through his curls just hard enough to rain a shower of cold water over the blond’s head.

“Oi!” John yipped, stepping out of range as he brushed droplets from his face. “Watch it, or I’ll throw you back out on the street,” he warned, waggling a finger across the foyer at him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, a reply on the tip of his tongue when the door behind him opened.

“John?” a questioning female voice said, and Sherlock turned, finding Mrs. Hudson frowning at them from her doorway, still in her day clothes apart from a pair of ratty red slippers that looked as though they could’ve been constructed from roadkill. She scanned Sherlock up and down, her eyes widening as she took in his haggard appearance. “Good _heavens_ , Sherlock!” she fussed, bustling across the foyer to his side. “You’ll catch your death in those wet clothes! Give me that,” she ordered, reaching up and beginning to unbutton his coat, but Sherlock stepped back, lifting a hand to stay her as he completed the undressing.

Sherlock had known Mrs. Hudson only a few days less than he’d known John, but the woman had jumped into mothering him immediately, dragging him into her flat and sitting him down for a fry-up within moments of their introduction two years ago. ‘You’re skin and bone!’ she’d tutted, and still regularly did, but, though Sherlock always rolled his eyes and sighed on principle, he didn’t truly mind the woman’s unwavering concern, and obediently peeled off the coat, shivering faintly at the fresh wave of cool air on his arms.

“Oh dear, you’re soaked clear through,” she clucked, shaking her head as she folded his coat over her arm, pinching his drenched sweater between her fingers. “You know, I still have a few of Ronald’s things,” she offered, gesturing toward her flat, and Sherlock shot John a panicked look from the corner of his eye, remembering Mrs. Hudson’s most recent beau’s fondness for paisley and hoping the blond wasn’t too bitter about the involuntary shower. “You can borrow some of them while we toss these in the dryer.”

“That’s alright, Mrs. Hudson,” John interceded, and Sherlock barely restrained his sigh of relief, not sure if he could handle bellbottom corduroys on top of everything else today. “I already pulled out a few things.”

Mrs. Hudson’s lips pursed with skepticism, her brow furrowing as she narrowed her eyes at John, as if already blaming him for Sherlock contracting the plague.

“I’ll bring down the wet clothes,” the man assured, moving toward the stairs as Sherlock attempted to sidle subtly after him. “Right after I’m done fixing tea,” he added, and that seemed to finally placate the woman, Mrs. Hudson nodding as she turned back toward her flat.

“I’ll hang this up over the radiator,” she said, bobbing the arm that held Sherlock’s dripping coat, and Sherlock smiled, dipping a grateful nod as the woman retreated back behind the door of her flat.

The moment the latch clicked behind her, Sherlock twisted on his heels, finding John on the fifth step up.

“You’re welcome,” the blond muttered, shaking his head as Sherlock grinned. “You owe me though,” he added, Sherlock following as he started back up the stairs. “Probably my only chance to see you in plaid trousers: Wasted!”

“Your sacrifice is duly noted,” Sherlock answered to his back, and John snorted, stepping aside to hold the flat door open as Sherlock passed through behind him.

“It better be,” he grumbled, latching the door shut once Sherlock was clear. “Those pictures would’ve been my Christmas cards for years.”

“You send Christmas cards?” Sherlock asked, and John shrugged, crossing in front of him as he headed for the kitchen.

“I could start,” he replied, his smirk transitioning to a laugh as he met Sherlock’s glare over his shoulder. “The clothes are on your chair,” he said, waving a hand toward the fireplace as he disappeared through the kitchen doors, and Sherlock frowned, leaving his soaked shoes and socks by the door before padding across the rug.

“How did you know I’d need clothes?” he asked, lifting the bundle from the arm of the leather chair he’d insisted on loaning John when the man moved into the flat earlier that year, the furniture only gathering dust in Sherlock’s storage locker, and John’s single armchair not leaving him anywhere to sit when he visited.

“Because it’s pouring outside,” John answered, his voice drifting in from the kitchen, accented by clinks of ceramic mugs on granite countertops, “and you don’t have an umbrella.”

“I could’ve taken a cab,” Sherlock countered, holding the dry clothes away from his drenched ones as he headed for the bathroom.

“You could’ve,” John conceded, peeking his head out around the doorframe, “but then it wouldn’t’ve taken you seven minutes.”

Sherlock had no immediate reply to that, and then there was no point, John’s grin indicating the battle was already lost.

“Just leave your clothes outside the door,” he said, and then ducked back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to nod at the wall before hastening down the corridor, trying to drip as little as possible on the polished hardwood floors.

He flicked on the light as he closed the bathroom door, his reflection appearing in the water-splattered mirror, and Mrs. Hudson’s concern suddenly made much more sense.

His hair was plastered to his forehead in some places, starting to frizz as it dried in others, and his clothes were hanging off his limbs, giving him a shrunken appearance eerily similar to his year 10 school photo. He looked even paler than usual, though the fluorescent lights weren’t doing him any favors, the dark circles beneath his eyes showcasing every second of his sleepless night, but a different kind of tired seeped suddenly into his bones, and he sighed, turning away from the mirror and beginning the arduous task of peeling away his wet clothes.

The water had soaked all the way through to his boxers, that removal especially uncomfortable, but John had thought of that too, a clean pair in soft grey cotton sandwiched between black athletic pants and a faded burgundy hoodie. Before he could answer the siren call of the warm dry clothes, however, he needed to dry the body they were going on, and grabbed a folded towel from the shelf above the towel rack, wrapping it around his waist just in case as he opened the door. Piling his drenched clothes outside, he quickly snapped the door shut again, John’s footsteps approaching a moment later, no doubt cued by the sound of the lock.

“There a clean towel in there?” he asked through the door, the height of his voice shifting as he bent down to collect the discarded clothing.

“Yeah,” Sherlock assured, John making an affirmative sort of grunt before his steps retreated, and Sherlock flipped his head upside-down, scrubbing the towel through his hair.

When he thought he was dry enough to not ruin two sets of clothing in one day, he hung the towel up on a free hook and climbed into the pants and trousers, bracing himself on the wall to keep from slipping on the slickened tile. Unfurling the hoodie, he noticed something written on the back, and held it out, finding John’s surname and the number 2 in white block letters, the ironed-on print cracked and peeling with age. Flipping to the front of the garment, he found a crest on the left breast, ‘Hampstead College Rugby’ spelled out beneath it, and ran a thumb over the fading screenprint, smiling fondly to himself.

Sherlock hadn’t known John in secondary school, but he imagined he was much the same, John Watson seeming a thing that had spawned fully formed rather than grown, a fixed point time had chosen to revolve around instead of attempting to budge. Time hadn’t brought him into John’s orbit until two years ago, however, Mike Stamford—a friend of Sherlock’s from secondary school—practically dragging him out of his dorm one night to join him and some of his friends from Barts for an event their rugby team had organized.

Sherlock had been disinclined for three reasons, none of which he had been shy about detailing: 1) He didn’t even go to Barts; 2) He didn’t know the first thing about rugby; and 3) An all-night James Bond marathon sounded more akin to torture than entertainment.

Still, Mike could be insufferable when he wanted to be, and, within the hour, Sherlock was shaking hands with the blue-eyed, blond-haired rugby captain who would somehow stumble into occupying the previously non-existent position of Sherlock’s best friend. Most of that progress had probably been made that very night, now that Sherlock thought about it, John not only tolerating his analyses of what portions of the movies were and were not possible according to the laws of physics, but interested in them, asking thoughtful questions and listening intently, and Sherlock was willing to admit—though never out loud—that he’d been more than a little taken with the man’s biting wit and easy smiles. John had had a girlfriend at the time though, and most of the time since (though never the same one for very long), and, by the time Sherlock realized there was some wiggle room in John’s sexual orientation, the friendship had grown too close to change course, not that Sherlock would have a clue how to steer it anyway.

Besides, John clearly preferred women, the handful of encounters with men he’d admitted to during a drinking game Sherlock had been eavesdropping on seeming to be the extent of his experience, and he certainly never _dated_ men, Sherlock inadvertently meeting all of John’s partners, though usually only once. John had insisted on returning the favor all the same, however, and, when Sherlock had murmured that he couldn’t stay for their weekly ‘Dinner with the Doctor’ on account of having a date, he hadn’t let Sherlock leave without eliciting a promise that he’d get to meet the man if he made it past date three.

Which was how date four began with the most awkward latte of Sherlock’s life, though he drank it quickly, constantly slurping the hot liquid to avoid having to talk while John and Victor bandied not-so-veiled barbs across the table at one another, and the evening would only get worse from there, Victor snarling at him about John all through dinner, and John laying into him the second he walked through the door a couple days later.

‘What barrel did you scrape him off the bottom of?’ John had opened the conversation, and it had only gotten more charitable from there, the tirade going on for several minutes before Sherlock threw up his hands, assuring John it was nothing serious, and, either way, he could take care of himself.

John had let it go at that for a time, though he was never in the same room with Victor again, but when, six months later, Sherlock revealed that Victor had asked him to move in at the end of his lease, a half-year’s worth of outrage came pouring out in curses so creative, Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson drop a dish downstairs.

What had followed was their first and, to date, only fight, but it still managed to take top honors as the worst one of Sherlock’s life, and he’d lived under the same roof as _Mycroft_.

‘You’re too smart to be this stupid!’ John had bellowed, stepping closer to where Sherlock stood glaring in the center of the living room. ‘Moving in with him won’t change anything! You really think sharing a bathroom is going to keep him from pulling blokes at-’

‘Don’t,’ Sherlock had interjected, but John hadn’t heeded the warning, shaking his head and barreling on.

‘This won’t end well, Sherlock,’ he urged, softening his tone, but not Sherlock’s defenses. ‘You’re making a huge mistake.’

‘Then it’s my mistake to make,’ Sherlock had snapped, fingers cracking to a fist as John sighed.

‘I’m only trying to help,’ he’d urged, moving forward, but Sherlock turned his face away. ‘I just don’t wanna see you get hurt.’

‘Then I suggest you close your eyes,’ he had answered flatly, twisting on his heels and stomping down the stairs, ignoring John calling at his back.

It was five days before they spoke again, five days of Sherlock turning his phone over in his hands and telling himself he had nothing to apologize for, and John seemed to agree, showing up outside one of Sherlock’s classes with two cups of coffee and an apologetic smile Sherlock never made him put the words to.

What words would John have for him now?

Looking back at his eyes in the mirror, Sherlock sighed, lifting a hand to brush an errant curl from his forehead. If the well-deserved ‘I told you so’ was coming, he might as well face it now, and dropped his own gaze to tug the hoodie over his head, flapping his arms into the sleeves as he opened the bathroom door and padded barefoot down the hall.

John was still in the kitchen, stirring sugar into one of two Dalek-shaped mugs in front of him, but turned when the floorboards creaked under Sherlock’s steps, smiling as his eyes swept the borrowed attire. “Nice ankles,” he quipped, nodding down to where his trousers fell a few inches too short on Sherlock’s frame.

“Cheers,” Sherlock deadpanned, but smiled when John chuckled, turning back to the coffee as Sherlock moved to the counter at his side. “The sweatshirt fits though,” he remarked, slipping his hands into the front pocket, and John nodded, clinking the spoon against the rim of the orange Dalek to dislodge the last few drops.

“I may have overestimated my year 12 growth spurt,” he replied, and Sherlock laughed, taking the mug John offered before following him into the living room.

Sherlock hadn’t noticed a fire going when he’d arrived, but there was one roaring now, crackling behind the grate as they settled into their respective chairs, Sherlock crossing his legs over the seat to cradle the mug against his heel.

John didn’t say anything, slurping at his tea and staring aimlessly into the flames, or so it would have appeared to most people, but Sherlock caught the glances darting out of the corners of his eyes, a silent curiosity he knew John would never press, and knowing he didn’t have to talk about it was the deciding factor in opening his mouth.

“Victor cheated on me,” he said to the ripples in his coffee, and the John-shaped blur he could see through his lashes froze. “Again,” he added, sadder than he’d intended, and there was a soft _clink_ as John placed his cup on the table beside his chair.

“Are-Are you sure?” he asked, and Sherlock huffed a laugh, lifting his eyes to John’s uncertain ones, the blond seeming to be waiting for a cue on how to react.

“Pretty damn,” he replied, and then the whole story was pouring out, complete with exact dialogue transcripts Sherlock would have to work on erasing later.

The entire time he was speaking, John never said a word, his face unreadable as he listened with eerily constant eye contact, and Sherlock couldn’t meet it by the end, shifting his now-lukewarm coffee as he stared down at his reflection wobbling in the murky brown liquid.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, shrugging a shoulder, “maybe…maybe I should’ve- What are you doing?”

John rose from his chair without a word, heading toward the stairwell, his hand clenched to a fist at his side.

“John?” Sherlock questioned, leaping up to follow as John rounded the corner, his footfalls thunderous as they descended the steps. “Where are you going?”

“To kill him,” John replied, stopping Sherlock short on the stairs, his eyes wide as he watched John take his heavy black jacket from its hook. “I’m gonna strangle him with his own bloody Burberry scarf,” he added with a snarl, and Sherlock smiled fondly at the back of his head, shaking his own down at the last few stairs.

“John-” he began, but the man was on a roll, zipping his coat with a single furious tug as his ranting resumed.

“Then, I’m gonna hail a cab,” he growled through bared teeth, his eyes not even seeming to see Sherlock as he passed, stomping toward the front door, “tie his scarf to the bumper, and drag him in circles around London.”

“How very Achillean of you,” Sherlock muttered, and then lunged forward, angling himself between John and the door as the man reached for the handle. “John, really, it’s not-”

“Yes, it is,” John interjected, attempting to swat Sherlock aside, but he only moved closer, overlapping the door handle with his hip.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” he contested, and John huffed in annoyance, his eyes blazing when they finally lifted, sucking Sherlock’s breath as the blue bored through him.

“You were going to tell me it’s no big deal,” he spat, and, though Sherlock knew the anger wasn’t directed at him, his pulse still quickened at the fury contained in the sharp syllables. “That you’re fine, don’t care, never really liked him that much anyway.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Sherlock mumbled, shifting quickly to the side as John rolled his eyes, making another dive for the doorknob.

“Sherlock, you moved _in_ with him!” he blustered, eyes widening incredulously as Sherlock merely shrugged.

“My lease was up,” he explained, and John twisted away with a frustrated sigh, pacing the length of the foyer. “It was more practical for me to-”

“Practical?” John scoffed, rattling his head as he looked back from across the dim room. “You don’t just move in with someone you’re dating because it’s _practical_!”

“I did.”

“Well, you shouldn’t’ve.”

“I had managed to piece that much together myself, thank you.”

John opened his mouth to reply, and then stalled, deflating with a single long breath as he dropped his face to the hardwood floor. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, blinking up through his lashes, but Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s alright,” he assured, stepping closer now that John appeared to have abandoned his interest in the front door. “I wasn’t- It didn’t exactly come as a shock.”

John frowned, confusion mixed with pity in the furrows of his brow, and Sherlock smiled back, a bitter twist of one corner of his lips.

“Victor was…none too subtle with his wandering eye,” he explained as efficiently as possible, hoping brevity would stave off most of the awkwardness, and, though John once again appeared curious, he also continued the tradition of not asking.

Instead, he dropped his eyes to the floor, a few steadying breaths hissing through his nose before he met Sherlock’s gaze again, notably calmer. “Can I at least knock out a few of his perfect teeth?” he muttered, and Sherlock laughed, a smile slowly curling on John’s face as he watched.

“If it will make you feel better.”

“Oh, it will,” John replied, nodding eagerly as Sherlock dissolved into laughter again, shaking his head at the blond lunatic as he wriggled out of his coat and returned it to its spot. “Well, seeing as you’re intent on ruining all my fun for the evening,” he quipped, flicking his brows up at Sherlock over his shoulder, “we might as well get something delivered. Unless Mrs. Hudson’s planning on cooking,” he added, bolstering his voice and pointing it in the direction of the woman’s flat.

“Not your housekeeper!” the woman called back, leaving no doubt she’d been listening just behind the door, and John shook his head in mock disapproval, causing Sherlock to make a sound not completely unlike a giggle. “And I wouldn’t mind some Chinese!”

John turned around, giving Sherlock a pointed look as he bobbed his head after the woman’s voice. “Chinese it is,” he murmured, and Sherlock lifted a hand to his mouth, muffling his chuckle as John rounded the newel, leading him back up the stairs. “Well, whaddya fancy?” he asked as they reached the kitchen, wrenching open a drawer beside the dishwasher with a pitiful squeak of wood-on-wood. “We’ve got Red Sun, Oriental Dragon,” he listed, dropping each takeaway menu on the counter in turn, “Royal China—though that one’s a bit pricey—, Feng Shang Princess-”

“Do you _ever_ cook?” Sherlock interjected, John pausing in his recitation to give him a flat look.

“No,” he replied, “would you like me to start now?”

Sherlock dropped his face, sucking his lips in over his teeth as he shook his head down at the granite, and John flicked a superior nod before going back to the menu drawer.

“There’s also a few Thai places,” he said, fluttering his fingers through the sea of brightly colored menus, “but Mrs. Hudson doesn’t like the spice, so we should probably pick from one of these.”

“Have you had them all?” Sherlock asked, and John shook his head, dragging the Oriental Dragon menu closer to the counter’s edge.

“I’ve tried this one”—he moved his fingers to tap against the Red Sun menu—“and this one, but none of the others.”

“So how did you get the menus?” Sherlock asked, and John turned his face up, clearly unamused.

“I did Chinese food recon when I moved in, alright?” he snipped, shaking his head as Sherlock laughed. “Now, can you pick a place before Mrs. Hudson faints of hunger?”

Still chuckling, Sherlock leaned around John’s shoulder, pointing to the Oriental Dragon menu, and John plucked it from the pile, unfolding it atop the others.

“They have an okay General Tso,” John said, referring to Sherlock’s usual preference, “but the Szechuan is better, and the orange chicken actually has quite a kick to it too.”

Sherlock shrugged, walking back through to the living room as he remembered their gone-cold tea. “Whichever you think,” he said, picking up both their mugs before returning to dump the remnants in the sink, finding John blinking at him when he turned back around. “What?” he questioned, and John rattled his head, dropping his eyes back to the menu.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “I just- You usually have an opinion is all.”

Sherlock leaned back against the counter, folding his arms as he thought. “I guess I’m just…not very hungry,” he murmured with a shrug, and John shot him a reassuring smile, his mouth opening just as his phone buzzed furiously in his pocket.

He huffed in irritation, wriggling the mobile free, the screen angled just low enough for Sherlock to read the inverted text as John opened it.

_We still on for tonight? ; )_

The name at the top of the screen was unfamiliar to him, but it was hardly a leap to assume this Jeanette was John’s latest romantic endeavor, the caught expression on the man’s face when he met Sherlock’s gaze confirming it.

“You should go,” Sherlock advised, nodding down at the mobile, continuing on before John could put voice to his shaking head. “I can eat with Mrs. Hudson; head back as soon as my clothes are my dry.”

“Back?” John echoed, frowning up at him. “Back where?”

“To the flat,” Sherlock muttered, looking away from John’s widening eyes.

“You wanna go _back_?” he spluttered, and Sherlock shook his head.

“Well, no, but-”

“But nothing!” John interjected, and Sherlock sighed, giving his friend a patient look.

“John, I have to go back,” he explained, ignoring the responding scoff. “I have no clothes.”

“You can wear mine,” John countered, and Sherlock smiled, but still shook his head.

“They wouldn’t fit me,” he reminded, and John could only scowl, unable to argue the obvious, “and, besides, it’s not just clothes; all my things are there. And, you know, my bed,” he added, and then reconsidered, frowning down at the linoleum. “Although I may prefer sleeping on the sofa.”

“No,” John forbade, shaking his head as Sherlock looked up, brow furrowing.

“No, I shouldn’t sleep on the sofa?” he supposed, but John continued shaking his head, closing the menu and turning to face Sherlock fully.

“No, you’re not going back there,” he clarified, and Sherlock sighed, John’s stubbornness, though well-intentioned, growing exhausting.

“John,” he began again, “I have to. I have nowhere else to go.”

John quirked a brow, lifting his hands out at his sides, and Sherlock scanned between them before looking back to the man’s face, perplexed.

“What?” he questioned, and John rolled his eyes, huffing out a frustrated breath as his arms slapped down against his body.

“Here,” he said pointedly, and Sherlock blinked, his arms unfolding as he stepped away from the counter.

“Here?” he parroted, eyes widening as John nodded.

“I have a spare bedroom,” the blond expounded, gesturing down the hall to the unused main-level room, “and I was planning on getting a roommate anyway. We can bring more of your stuff over tomorrow, and you can just stay here until you figure something out. Or however long you like, really,” he added with a shrug, but Sherlock shook his head, lifting a palm to deflect the generosity.

“No, I-I couldn’t impose, I-”

“You’re not imposing,” John assured, shaking his head with a fond sort of patience Sherlock had grown quite familiar with over the years. “I’m insisting. Totally different process.”

“John, I-”

“Sherlock, please.”

He stopped short, the ‘p’ word coming out of John’s mouth only slightly less alarming than it would’ve been coming out of his.

“Just let me do this,” John implored, shuffling a step closer as he looked up into Sherlock’s face. “It’s not a bother or an inconvenience,” he recited, and Sherlock blinked away, uncomfortable as always with John’s apparent ability to read his mind, “and I’m not offering out of pity or anything like that, I just- I want you here.”

Sherlock peeked out from behind his lashes, John meeting his skepticism with a soft smile that could sell sand in the desert.

“And I might actually kill someone if you go back and sleep on that sofa,” he added, and Sherlock laughed, shattering the awkwardness of sentiment that had begun to settle around them. “Seriously, I wouldn’t be able to help myself,” John continued, shaking his head, mockingly mournful. “Be a massacre. Probably safer for everyone if you just stay here.”

“So it would seem,” Sherlock chuckled, silence and gentle smiles falling between them before John cleared his throat, turning back to the menu and adjusting the collar of his jumper.

“Orange alright with you, then?” he asked, his voice a key too high, a count too quick.

Sherlock nodded, twisting at the cuffs of John’s hoodie, his thumbs finding frayed holes already worn in the cotton. “Yeah, er, fine,” he muttered, and John nodded, holding the menu open with one hand while lifting his mobile with the other.

The message from Jeanette was still up when he swiped it open, thumb hovering over the screen, and Sherlock swallowed, an impassive smile already on his face by the time John glanced up at him.

“You could still go,” he encouraged. “I’ll be fine tucking myself in,” he added, hoping the jest would lend credence to his spurring.

A short laugh hissed through John’s nose as he shook his head, biting at a corner of his lip, and then gave a single swift nod, as if confirming something in his own mind. “No,” he said, the screen tilting out of Sherlock’s view as he tapped out a reply. “To be honest, I’ve been dreading that date all day,” he muttered, glancing up at Sherlock with a grimace, and Sherlock frowned, tilting his head.

“Why?” he questioned, not exactly devastated that John wasn’t wooing London that night, but curious all the same.

John shrugged, finishing his reply before opening the keypad, entering in the number off the restaurant menu. “I don’t know, she just- She’s a bit much, ya know?” he attempted to commiserate, and Sherlock nodded obligingly, playing his part. “Keeps talking about this big Christmas party at her friend’s house.”

“And you don’t want to go?” Sherlock presumed, John tipping his head side-to-side in half-confirmation.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was just friends,” he conceded, “but she said her _sister_ was going to be in town that weekend as well.”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock mused with dawning comprehension. “Your infamous ‘rules’,” he mocked, curling his fingers around the quote.

“They’re hardly infamous,” John grumbled, glaring as Sherlock snorted, “and you make it sound like I have a bloody Bible of them.”

“John Watson’s Ten Commandments,” he teased, smiling innocently back at John’s sneer.

“First of all,” the blond snipped, running a finger down the rows of entrees on the menu, pausing to tap on certain dishes as he attributed them to memory, “there are six of them”—Sherlock rolled his eyes—“and, second,”—he turned, pointing a finger up at Sherlock’s face—“shove it.”

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head at the back of John’s as the blond stepped away, putting the phone to his ear and pacing just beyond the kitchen door as he relayed their order to the restaurant.

For as long as Sherlock had known him, John had been in some stage of a relationship—a serial monogamist, as he’d been told they were called—always starting, ending, or somewhere in between with someone, but, through all the temporary successes and inevitable missteps, he had clung to six firm principles Sherlock was long-tired of hearing.

1) Don’t say “We need to talk” unless you’re about to break up.

2) Don’t break up with someone in a place you can’t easily leave.

3) Don’t go out with the same person more than twice in a single seven-day week.

4) Don’t go on more than five dates with someone you’re not planning on getting serious with (Netflix and chill included).

5) Don’t ever meet any member of their family, extended or otherwise.

6) Don’t date anyone over a significant holiday.

John had never told him why he’d decided to live under such stipulations, but Sherlock had gleaned enough to piece together that each rule was tied to a romantic horror-story, the specifics of which John wasn’t inclined to go into, leaving Sherlock to only hope they didn’t all originate from the same failed relationship.

However the Laws of Love had come about, John was set in them, perhaps too set, Sherlock seeing more than a few girls leave in tears after mentioning a birthday party or choir concert, but he’d only asked John about it once, when the man was on his third day of moping after breaking up with Sarah Sawyer: a spirited biology student Sherlock had actually not been completely repulsed by.

‘I told you,’ John had snapped from the sofa, which he hadn’t seemed to have moved from since Sherlock had left him there the night before, ‘she wanted me to be her plus one for her cousin’s wedding.’

‘So?’ Sherlock had dismissed, and John had rolled his eyes, shaking his head out toward the window.

‘You can’t just…go to a wedding with someone, Sherlock,’ he’d explained tersely, hands flitting through the air in irritable gestures. ‘People take those sorts of things seriously. It’s a commitment.’

‘To what?’ Sherlock remembered scoffing. ‘Choke down some mediocre chicken or fish? It’s not like she asked you to _your_ wedding.’

‘Close enough,’ John had grumbled, sighing exasperatedly when Sherlock only stared at him, blinking in disbelief. ‘Look, I just- I don’t do weddings, alright?’ he’d clipped with a shrug. ‘I have my rules for a reason, and weddings _definitely_ break a few of them.’

‘But you didn’t _want_ to break up with her,’ Sherlock had challenged, and John had turned away, running a hand through his gnarled hair. ‘What’s the point in having rules if following them makes you miserable?’

‘I’m not miserable,’ John had blustered, to which Sherlock had simply quirked a brow.

‘The two empty packages of biscuits in the bin beg to differ,’ he’d muttered, and that had been the end of it, the conversation devolving into bickering as they picked apart each other’s eating habits, but something about that day had stuck with Sherlock.

He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself, but there was _something_ there, a sort of twisting pinch in his chest every time he saw John ignore a text or lie about being unavailable that weekend. He and John were just friends, and always would be, a fate he had long-ago come to be grateful for rather than resent, but there was still a part of him, a sliver even his best-efforts couldn’t silence, that wanted to believe it was possible, that there was a John Watson who would go on sixth dates and shake hands with your father, but, if none out of the veritable parade of women John had dated over the past two years could draw it out of him, Sherlock didn’t stand a chance.

Assuming that John could ever be interested in the first place, which was, in itself, only slightly more likely than science cracking the secret of time travel during his lifetime.

“20 to 25 minutes,” John announced as he placed his mobile on the table beside his armchair, and then moved back into the kitchen, Sherlock shifting out of the way as the man swept the menus back into their drawer. “You wanna help me put the sheets on the bed?” he asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the wall the bedroom lay beyond. “I washed them after my sister stayed last month, but that’s as far as I got.”

Sherlock chuckled, John beaming as he nodded, and then they headed down the hall, arguing far more than ought to be possible over bedlinens, turning them this way and that as they disagreed over which way was up.

Ten minutes and a brief pillow fight later, they emerged, John voicing suggestions from the TV guide while Sherlock made sounds of disgust or indifference, and then the doorbell rang, John leaping up and stepping through Sherlock’s legs when he refused to move them, grinning over his shoulder as he watched Sherlock barely manage to stop himself from falling.

Glaring at the back of the blond’s head as he disappeared over the horizon of the stairs, Sherlock then turned his attention to finding something suitable to watch, an endeavor quickly cut off as John’s mobile buzzed on the coffee table beside him. He would never look through John’s phone without his permission, but he wasn’t above reading the incoming message where it scrolled across the top of the screen, especially when it began with the contact name ‘Jeanette’.

_You know my friends are so wrong about you. Youre a great boyfriend._

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, watching the last letters disappear around the left side of the screen.

What kind of passive aggressive-

The screen brightened with another message, and Sherlock leaned closer, eyes glued to the scrolling marquee.

_Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man._

A bitterness coated his tongue, and he leaned back, trying to swallow it down as he heard John bid farewell to the delivery man, his footfalls quick and heavy as he bounded up every other step.

“Soup’s on!” he proclaimed in the worst Southern American accent Sherlock had ever heard, dropping the plastic bag on the kitchen table, the faded yellow smiley face printed on the side fixing Sherlock with its blank black stare. “Come and get it!” He turned his back, humming to himself as he collected paper plates from a cupboard, and Sherlock stood, heart twinging as he glanced once more down at the mobile.

He didn’t feel lucky at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided I can do at least one chapter every day, but some might be rather short, as I'm breaking chapters at time jumps to make it easier on my brain. Safe to say the updates will most often be in the evening (EST), and I hope you all continue tuning in!

“AH! Fucking son of a-!”

Sherlock knew where he was before he even opened his eyes, John’s dulcet tones drifting under the door to drag him into consciousness.

There was a loud _thump_ from down the hall, followed by unintelligible mutterings Sherlock was nevertheless sure were profanities, and he pushed his skull back into the pillow with a resigned groan, arching his back in a stretch before sitting up. 10:34am glowed up at him from the clock on the bedside table, and he blinked, sure there had to be some mistake, but there was enough light invading the drawn curtains for him to confirm it couldn’t be that far off, and he reluctantly stood, the hardwood cold on his bare feet as he shuffled to the door. He yawned as he made his way down the corridor, tugging the sleeves of John’s sweatshirt down to his fingertips, and then hobbled into the living room, frowning as he surveyed the changed landscape.

A worn blue suitcase he didn’t recognize had been dropped in the middle of the floor, as if its owner had disappeared in the moving of it, and a small cardboard box sat beneath the arm of his chair, the folded flaps straining against the unseen contents.

Stepping farther into the room, he moved toward the suitcase, scanning the handles in search of a luggage tag, but turned as footsteps approached, John emerging from the kitchen with two steaming cups and a startled expression.

“You’re awake,” he muttered, dropping his eyes to lower the two drinks to the table beside his chair. “I was just about to come in and poke you with a stick.”

Sherlock grunted his displeasure, forming words still a few minutes away, and John chuckled, waving a hand down at the mugs as he crossed to the sofa, grabbing the remote from the coffee table.

“Yours is the blue one,” he said, and Sherlock took the appropriate cup as he passed, drawing his legs up under him as he settled into his chair, closing his eyes as he breathed in the sweet earthy scent of fresh coffee. “How’d ya sleep?” John asked as he dropped into his own chair, flicking the telly to the news before swapping the remote for his drink.

Sherlock shrugged, swallowing down his first sip—black, two sugars, just the way he liked it. “Fine,” he replied, gently lowering the cup to rest on his thigh. “Longer than I would’ve liked,” he added, and John smiled, “but fine.”

“I thought about waking you earlier,” the blond admitted, pausing to draw up a mouthful, “but then I figured, if you were still sleeping, you must need the rest.”

Sherlock grumbled, bobbing his head side-to-side in begrudging agreement as John chuckled over the rim of his cup.

“One all-nighter too many?” he teased, and, though Sherlock smiled, the jest plucked at the chord of memory tied to Victor’s words, and he turned away, nodding at the suitcase to change the subject.

“Am I driving you out already?” he asked, and John snorted, shaking his head as he stood.

“Not yet,” he said, “but you were sleeping for most of it.” He grinned up at Sherlock’s scowl as he bent in front of the suitcase, grabbing hold of one of the handles and shifting it closer to Sherlock’s chair. “Actually,” he continued, waving a hand between the luggage and the box, “that’s all your stuff.”

Sherlock frowned, reaching out to place his coffee on the table before peering over the arm of his chair. “What do you mean, ‘my stuff’?” he asked, tugging at the top of the cardboard box, and the flaps came loose, revealing his scarf haphazardly spread atop a stack of familiar books. He blinked, making to slide the scarf aside, but something firm met his touch, and he swatted the folds of fabric away to find his skull wrapped tightly within. “This-” he stammered, eyes darting between John and his possessions, “This was at Victor’s.”

John half nodded, half shrugged, but looked wholly uncomfortable, a sliver of tan midriff showing beneath his striped jumper as he scratched at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I- Well, I was up early,” he murmured, flicking a vague hand at the stairs behind him, “and-and you needed…things”—another brief wave over the suitcase—“so I just thought I’d…pop over.” A swallow bobbed down his throat as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans, rocking back on the heels of his socks. “Seemed like it’d be better than…than you doing it.”

Sherlock smiled, hardly able to breathe with the pressure his expanding heart was putting on his lungs, but the moment was awkward enough without him bumbling through an expression of gratitude, so he merely nodded, John’s answering smile welcoming the silent thanks.

“I hope I got all of it,” he continued, the tension in his shoulders relaxing as he scanned over the collection. “Victor told me which drawers were yours and everything, but it seemed like there should be more.”

“No,” Sherlock said, shaking his head as he stood, kneeling beside the suitcase and unzipping it to scan the contents, “this looks about right. Most of my things are still in storage.”

“Storage?” John echoed, frowning down at him. “I thought you moved straight into Victor’s from your last place.”

“I did,” he confirmed, abandoning the suitcase for now as he spun on his knees, gingerly removing the scarf-wrapped skull to delve further into the box. “I just…didn’t bring much with me.”

“Why not?” John asked, stretching out his legs to brace himself as he perched on the arm of his chair.

Sherlock shrugged, speaking down at the cardboard as he strummed his fingers along the endpapers of his anatomy textbook. “I don’t know,” he replied, but he could feel John’s eyes on the back of his neck, knowing and expectant. He took a breath. “I suppose, in a way,” he murmured, biting his lip as he considered the final phrase, “I always knew it wouldn’t last.”

It was quiet behind him, but he could feel John grow nervous, the air seeming to thrum with his quickening heartbeat.

“Did you want it to?” he asked, his voice quiet, the very tone of the question conveying it could go unanswered, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No,” he murmured down at the frazzled edge of the rug, “not really.”

“Then why stay?” The floorboards creaked as John stood, a rustle of clothing announcing a small step closer, and Sherlock looked back over his shrugging shoulder, speaking to the man’s shins.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Why does anyone stay? Convenience? Habit? The crippling fear of dying alone?”

“Love?” John supplied, and Sherlock snorted, shaking his head as he returned to his box, shuffling at the odds and ends from his desk to give his hands something to do.

“Love?” he mimicked with a scoff. “No. That’d be even more absurd than the dying alone bit.”

“So...are you?”

Sherlock shifted on his knees, turning to frown properly at the man, and John crept a few steps closer, Sherlock tilting his head back to hold the searching blue gaze.

“Are you afraid of dying alone?”

Sherlock blinked, his jaw dropping barely a centimeter before he caught it, pressing his lips shut and puffing a derisive sniff through his nose. “Of course not. Why would I be?” He turned his back, meeting the skull’s hollow stare as he swallowed. “I’m always alone.” He felt the floor tremble beneath him, his internal proximity alert buzzing like a hum of electricity at the base of his neck.

“Not always,” John whispered, the words making up in conviction what they lacked in volume, and Sherlock took a moment before glancing over his shoulder, peering up through his lashes to where John hovered above him.

It wasn’t often that Sherlock Holmes was struck speechless, but, every time it happened, John Watson was to blame, his unflinching honesty and unapologetic candor robbing Sherlock’s tongue of its faculties, and it flopped useless in his mouth for a moment as he started and abandoned responses, finally opting to simply seal his lips and smile.

John returned the gesture, throwing in a nod for added assurance of his sincerity, and then looked past him to the box, pointing down at it as he mercifully rolled the conversation on and away. “Be careful when you move that one,” he remarked. “It’s got your whole library in it. Nearly crushed my fingers.”

“You could have put some in the suitcase,” Sherlock replied, leafing through the volumes to ensure nothing had been missed.

“You could have put some in the suitcase,” John mimicked in a nasal whine, and Sherlock chuckled, listening as John’s footsteps started for the kitchen. “Oh!” he blurted, darting toward the stairs. “One more thing.” He thumped down to the first floor, Sherlock left raising a brow at thin air before the man’s head reappeared, the steps slowly revealing him until Sherlock saw the small green-and-gold-wrapped box in his hands, and his stomach plummeted to 221C. “He gave me this on the way out,” John explained, turning the package over in his hands. “Guess he got his Christmas shopping done ear-” He stopped short, finally looking up to Sherlock’s face, his eyes searching as a concerned frown bloomed across his forehead. “What?” he asked, glancing between Sherlock and the gift. “Do you not- No, of course you don’t,” he muttered, shaking his head as he plucked at the tape with his fingernails, a blush nibbling at his cheeks. “I don’t know what- I’m sorry, I-I wasn’t-”

“No, it-it’s not that,” Sherlock interjected, rising to his feet. “It’s- It’s mine. My gift. The gift I bought,” he stammered in explanation, and John’s eyes widened, blinking at him before dropping back to the parcel.

“I- _Shit_ , I-I’m sorry, I never would’ve-”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock assured, shaking his head, but John remained unconvinced, expression pained as he fidgeted over the wrapping paper.

“No, I-I should’ve- _Fuck_!”

“John,” Sherlock attempted to soothe, but it was no use, the man heeding no one as he paced a few strides side-to-side, running a hand through his hair.

“Of course it wasn’t his! He got his mother a bloody _gift card_ for her birthday, for chrissake!”

“There was no way you could’ve known.”

“But I should’ve.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” John grumbled, glowering miserably at the sparkling paper, “but I should’ve.”

Sherlock smiled, shaking his head with fond exasperation as he watched the man twist his socked toes into the rug. “John,” he sighed, blue eyes peeking up at him through pale lashes, “it’s fine. Really,” he added as the man continued to frown. “I didn’t even pick it out.”

John snapped his face up, his frown now more puzzled than anguished. “You didn’t?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Not really, anyway,” he expounded with a shrug. “He told me what he wanted; I just had to go in and buy it. Asked the woman at the counter which one she thought would be best.”

John looked back to the package, scrutinizing it now, his head tilting side-to-side as if just making the discovery. “Not exactly romantic,” he muttered, and Sherlock hissed a laugh, dodging the detritus of his former lodgings as he weaved closer across the hardwood.

“Wasn’t meant to be,” he replied with a shake of his head. “We almost didn’t do gifts at all.”

John blinked dolefully, the melancholic music from the RSPCA adverts playing in Sherlock’s head. “But it’s _Christmas_!” he urged, and Sherlock sighed around a smile. “You have to get presents! Especially for someone you’re dating.”

“Is that why you avoid it?” Sherlock jabbed, but John only wrinkled his nose, unoffended.

“ _No_ ,” he drawled. “That’s a perk,” he added with a shrug, “but I told you, I-”

“Don’t want to set up expectations,” Sherlock interjected, finishing the mantra, and John nodded.

“Exactly.”

“Because dating someone over a holiday suggests that the relationship is serious.”

“Right.”

“And you’re terrified of commitment.”

“Ri-” He broke off, matching Sherlock’s smirk with a stony expression. “You’re hilarious,” he deadpanned, and Sherlock graduated to a grin. “Seriously, my sides are splitting.”

Sherlock chuckled, rocking back on his heels as he looked down at the stretch of floor between his and John’s toes, his eyes lifting at the sound of John’s huff.

“So,” he said, brows lifting as he twisted the package in his grip, “whaddya wanna do with this?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock shrugged, completely apathetic now that the surprise had worn off, and John stepped forward, stretching the box out between them.

“You wanna just keep it?” he asked, and Sherlock shook his head.

“No. I have no use for it, and I don’t know anyone else who-” He paused, frowning with a moment’s thought, and then met John’s eyes again, pointing to the parcel. “Why don’t you take it?” he offered, and John’s eyes tried to make a break for it.

“What!?” he spluttered, blinking down incredulously, as if the box had somehow personally offended him. “Me? But I- I _can’t_ , I-”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, shrugging an indifferent shoulder. “I told you: I don’t need it, and you’re the only person I can think of who would get any use out of it.”

“But-” John stammered, shuffling the gift between his hands, “But you bought it for Victor. Won’t it...bother you? Seeing it around?”

Sherlock snorted, flipping a hand through the air to dismiss the thought. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he added for good measure. “Like you said, it wasn’t particularly romantic.”

John was wavering, biting his lip with indecision. “But, still,” he began again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “it’s personal, and-”

“Oh, for god’s- It’s not a bloody _locket!_ ” he blustered, flicking his fingers in the direction of the package. “Lock of my hair and a picture in it. ‘Happy Christmas! Love, Sherlock’ inscribed on the back.”

“Damn!” John cursed, snapping his fingers in faux disappointment. “The one thing I had on my list...”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. “John,” he muttered, unamused, but the blond only shook his head, a wistful look in his unfocused eyes.

“It’s like my Hornby train set all over again.”

“John.”

“I was very specific. The one with the red locomotive, I said. And what did I get?”

“John!”

“Thomas the _fucking_ Tank Engine.”

“JOHN!”

“He’s not even red!” John railed, and Sherlock scowled, his eyes narrowing until the blond released a begrudging sigh, gaze dropping once again to the box in his hand. Tentatively, his eyes lifted. “Are you sure-”

Sherlock tipped his head, setting his jaw in a way that dared John to finish that sentence, and the blond didn’t seem inclined to test him, falling silent as he sucked his lips in over his teeth around a smile.

“Alright,” he nodded, snapping open the tape the gift-wrap attendant at the store had so meticulously straightened, “but I’d better get that locket next year.” He paused at the warning, lifting a chiding finger, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning away and dropping back to the floor beside his suitcase to count off what was hopefully all of his dress shirts.

There was a rustle of tearing paper, followed swiftly by an overdramatic gasp Sherlock had been waiting for, sighing heavily as he twisted around.

John was blinking dewily at him, eyes dancing with mirth as he forced his bottom lip to tremble. “I do!” he choked out, turning the clearly-too-large-for-a-ring box in his hand, and Sherlock’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head, returning to his shirts as John laughed.

A flip of a lid later, there was a low whistle behind him, and Sherlock watched over his shoulder as John wriggled the silver watch from its case, darting his gaze back to the suitcase before the blond could catch his eyes.

“Fancy,” he appraised, turning the instrument over in his hands, fingers sliding over the black leather band and polished buckles. “Maybe a little _too_ fancy for the med-student-grunge look I’ve perfected.” He waved a hand over the old red jumper he’d had longer than Sherlock had known him, the cuffs of the sleeves pilling where they weren’t unravelling, and then stepped forward, lowering the watch to hover above Sherlock’s shoulder. “You sure you don’t wanna just return it?” he asked, the polished face of the timepiece reflecting the grey light of the sun into Sherlock’s eyes. “Seems like it would’ve set you back a bit.”

“I don’t know where the receipt is,” Sherlock lied, not wanting to admit to having been confident enough to throw it away immediately upon exiting the store, “and you need a new watch anyway.”

“I was gonna fix it,” John said, but his resolve seemed to be waning as he pressed the watch to his wrist, testing the reach of the band. “I just lost the buckle.”

“It’ll be next Christmas before you get around to that, if ever, and you know it,” Sherlock stated, receiving no argument but a half-hearted sneer. “You need a watch; I have a watch. Seems simple enough.”

“Yeah, but-”

“If you absolutely _must_ ,” Sherlock sighed, John’s chivalry frustrating as ever, “consider it a thank you gift. For letting me stay here.”

John hesitated, nibbling at the corner of his lip, and then the tension released from his shoulders as he shrugged, nimble fingers latching the watch around his wrist one-handed. “Well, alright,” he murmured, brow furrowing in concentration as he wavered between tightness settings, “but I’m not letting you do anything else. Except your dishes.” He twisted the watch facing forward on his wrist, giving Sherlock a stern look. “I’m not having another explosion in my sink.”

“Well, if you didn’t pour three different chemicals in at once-”

“Who keeps flammable liquids in teacups!?”

“All the tupperware was in the fridge!” Sherlock contested, an old argument he thought he’d won, or maybe John just hadn’t bothered putting up a fight, shaking his head with a puff of a chuckle.

“Just make sure to label it next time?” he requested, Sherlock conceding with a nod, and then passed Sherlock to his chair, picking up his drink and the remote with a lazy Saturday sigh. “Any requests?” he asked, bringing up the guide, but Sherlock only shrugged, returning to taking inventory of his box. “Alright,” John said, taking a slow sip of his coffee as he opened the menu to his DVR recordings, “ _Hollyoaks_ it is.”

Sherlock groaned so loud, he was surprised the floorboards didn’t rattle, but he did shift a few inches to his left to see around the table as the show started, chancing glances through his lashes as he slowly pulled out and refolded his clothes.

John graciously pretended not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, fuck it, have another one because it's short and there are dirty chemistry words and you're all such beautiful people

**_Are you coming back for dinner?_ **

Sherlock read the text as it came in, tilting his head to keep track of the scrolling marquee as the phone vibrated away from him on the table. He twisted the stopcock on his burette, releasing exactly three drops into the heated solution waiting over a Bunsen burner below, and then stripped off his gloves, opening the text while waiting for the liquid to foam—hopefully.

_ If dinner is at 8  _ he typed back, adding another text as a thought occurred to him.  _ Don’t you have a date tonight? _

**_Cancelled_ **

_ You or her? _

**_It was a mutual cancellation_ **

_ So you then _

**_Pretty much_ **

Sherlock huffed a laugh, shaking his head down at the phone, fingers poised over the keyboard as another message rattled through.

**_She wanted me to go to some black and white foreign film they’re screening for all 7 people who care_ **

_ And you’re more the technicolor type? _

**_I’m more the English type_ **

_ You took French _

**_800 years ago and all I remember is how to ask for the bathroom and a sandwich._ **

**_How’d you know it was French?_ **

_ A foreign film with JEANETTE? _

**_Fair enough. Anyway, I’m torn between Indian and Italian_ **

_ That is an extremely odd craving combination _

**_I am an enigma_ **

Sherlock started to laugh, but quickly broke off into a yelp, the beaker not so much foaming as spontaneously combusting, a mass of thick green-hued froth expanding so rapidly, it broke free of its container to drip in large clumps of gelatinous slime onto the glass shards below.

“Sherlock?” came his professor’s voice from the lab opposite, and Sherlock froze, a tableau of panic, half-risen from his stool with his arms outstretched toward the carnage. “Are you alright?”

A clump slid over the table’s edge, the splatter narrowly missing Sherlock’s wingtips.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, tip-toeing across the room to fetch a roll of paper towels. “Just...dropped a beaker.”

“Broom’s next to the filing cabinet,” the man advised, and then fell silent, mercifully not concerned enough to check.

“But where’s the mop?” Sherlock muttered to himself, pulling his gloves back on before carefully collecting the remains of the beaker in a pocket of paper towel.

Luckily, the solution wasn’t acidic this time, and, apart from some mild skin discoloration above the seal of his gloves, Sherlock came out of the cleaning process unscathed, giving the floor and table a final wipedown with cleaner before tossing the evidence in the biohazard bin. It was still early, plenty of time left in his lab rental to attempt the experiment again, but the failure had left him itchy with frustration, and he knew more mistakes were sure to follow.

_ Sorry, minor explosion. Heading back now. _

He slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat and picked up his bag, firing off one last message before stowing the phone in his pocket.

_ Italian _ .  _ Get the garlic bread with cheese. _

Popping in to say goodnight to his professor, he was halfway down the stairs before his pocket hummed with a reply.

**_Still have all your fingers? Both eyebrows?_ **

A corner of his mouth lifted.

_Order the food_ , he typed, rolling his eyes as John replied with the winking kiss emoji, and then tucked his hands and mobile into his pockets, hiding them away from the bitter wind that heralded the season’s first snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah blah blah, Christmas fic, blah blah blah, update every day from Christmas to New Year's, blah blah blah, Christmas nerds in love

The kettle whistled on the stove, John equal parts too nostalgic and lazy to swap the old red-varnished model for an electric one, and Sherlock slipped a bookmark into one of John’s textbooks he’d picked up out of boredom and accidentally become invested in—a detailed overview of the pathology and spread of the Black Death—to dash across the room before the sound grew too shrill, removing the kettle from the heat and twisting off the burner.

It had been mere hours over a week since his first soggy appearance at 221B, and Sherlock was settling in for a quiet Friday night, expecting only tea, pandemics, and the snow falling outside for company. It was easy to feel at home in the cozy flat, with its eclectic mix of threadbare rugs, contrasting wallpapers, and a collection of furniture that looked to have come from at least four different places, the sets mixed and matched into something somehow perfect for the space. Sure, the floors creaked like aching knees, the pipes groaned in protest of their function, and the flat could be split into two different climates depending on the direction of the wind, but, with a simmering fire and strong cup of tea, Sherlock couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Perhaps he’d take John up on his offer to stick around after all.

The front door slammed shut, a muttering male voice drifting up the stairs amidst the rustle of clothes, and then John appeared in the doorway, hair glittering with dewdrops of snow.

“Oh, thank fuck!” he gusted, shuffling around his chair to stand in front of the fire, hands flexing toward the warmth. “Thought I was gonna need to lob a few of these off.” He wriggled his fingers, a spider shadow-puppet dancing across the carpet behind him. “You know it’s 4 degrees out there tonight?”

“It’s only going to get colder,” Sherlock replied over his shoulder, pulling another mug from the cupboard. “Saw on the news they’re predicting a rough winter.”

“Excellent,” John deadpanned, and Sherlock smiled down at his work, John’s footsteps coming closer as water gurgled into their mugs. “That for me?” he asked from the doorway, nodding toward the brewing beverages.

“No, I was going to take one down to Mrs. Hudson.” He lifted his face, ensuring John could see him roll his eyes.

The man chuckled, crossing behind Sherlock to the fridge, the excessive  _ three _ jars of jam in the door rattling as he pulled it open. “You eaten?” he asked, and Sherlock turned, frowning at the back of John’s head.

“I thought you were going out,” he said, and John looked back over his shoulder, face haloed by the refrigerator light.

“Hmm? Oh, no.” He shook his head, bending back toward the fridge and sifting through takeaway containers. “Jeanette and I broke it off this morning, so dinner’d probably be a bit awkward.”

Sherlock watched the man’s back, mouth working around phantom platitudes before he forced one out. “I’m...sorry?”

“You sure?” John teased, pulling his cheese ravioli from the pile. “No, it’s fine. To tell ya the truth, she was getting a little controlling.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, clearing his throat as he turned to busy himself with the tea. “Oh.” He heard John still behind him as the fridge door swung closed with a gentle  _ click _ .

“What?” he asked, and Sherlock shrugged down at the counter, making a production of drawing the bag up from the liquid.

“Nothing.”

“No, that wasn’t a nothing ‘Oh’, that was a something ‘Oh’.”

“I’m fairly certain it was just an ‘Oh’.”

“Sherlock.”

“It’s nothing,” he protested, resting the spoon on the counter, the tea bags bleeding brown droplets onto the granite. “I just seem to remember someone telling you she was the jealous type three weeks ago, but...” He faded away with a shrug, and then spun around with a yip of surprise, clutching the back of his head. “What the- That hurt!” he snapped, scanning the floor to find one of the wrapped caramels Mrs. Hudson had insisted on planting in a dish on their counter.

“Good,” John replied with a flick of his brows. “Maybe a few less brain cells will make you less of a smartass. Grab me a plate, would ya?”

Grumbling on principle, Sherlock obliged, John taking the plate with an almost-apologetic smile.

“She wasn’t that bad at first,” he said, spooning out ravioli with a sound that would be revolting if it wasn’t tomato sauce. “Maybe a little clingy, but-”

“She read your texts!” Sherlock spluttered, tipping the spent tea bags into the bin. “And god forbid you twitter before responding to her.”

“Tweet,” John corrected, missing Sherlock’s glare as he turned away to the microwave, “and, okay, that was a little much, but still”—he paused, setting the cooking time with a series of shrill beeps—“she wasn’t all bad.”

“You say that about  _ all _ of them,” Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes as he picked up his mug, sliding John’s a few inches across the counter to indicate its readiness. “Honestly, what  _ would  _ be a dealbreaker for you? Bunny boiling on the stove? Sledgehammer to the ankles?”

“Probably somewhere between the two.” John picked up his mug, smiling at Sherlock over the rim as he slurped at the still-steaming liquid. “Or meeting the parents.”

“Oh, the horror,” Sherlock deadpanned, and John chuckled, pulling a fork from the drawer to his right.

“You should finish your Indian food,” he said, nodding at the fridge. “It’ll go off in another day or so, and I’d bet good money you skipped lunch.”

Not wanting to confirm, Sherlock said nothing, but it was obvious as soon as he placed his cup on the counter, reaching up to collect another plate.

John didn’t comment, smiling into his drink before crossing the kitchen to silence the blaring microwave. He hissed a curse as he pulled the plate out, never seeming to learn the effect of infrared radiation on ceramic, and placed it on the table, testing his fingers at different spots around the edge until he found a less scalding position. “Anything you feel like watching?” he asked, leaving for the living room, the leather sofa squeaking a moment later.

“Not particularly,” Sherlock replied, scooping out chicken vindaloo and rice, and, by the time his food was ready, John had settled on some sort of action movie, a tan man in a dusty hat swinging his whip at a barrage of enemies. “You didn’t have to wait,” he said, noting John’s untouched ravioli, but the man only shrugged, taking another drag of the tea he held in his lap.

“It was too hot anyway. You okay with Indiana Jones?” he asked, nodding at the television, and Sherlock shrugged, shifting his chicken around on his plate. “It’s already half over, but Temple of Doom comes on after.”

“Alright,” Sherlock muttered, mixing some sauce into a forkful of rice, but paused halfway through shoveling it into his mouth as he caught John squinting at him. “What?”

John tilted his head, scanning Sherlock’s face with suspicion. “What’s this movie called?” he asked, and Sherlock blinked, lifting the fork to his lips to buy himself some time with chewing.

“Indiana Jones,” he murmured through his food, shrugging a shoulder as if the question were absurd.

“And the...” John prompted, a single eyebrow climbing into his hair.

Sherlock swallowed, the game up whether he wanted to admit it or not. “And the...Monastery of Death?”

“Sherlock!”

“We didn’t have a television!” he blurted, wondering how John continued to be so horror-struck by this fact. “I’ve told you this a hundred- Where are you going?”

John sat his mug on the coffee table, getting up to crouch in front of the television set, which went dark a moment later. “You don’t have to get up early for anything tomorrow, do you?” he asked, the Blu-ray player whirring open as John stood to pull a boxed disc set from the bookcase.

“No,” Sherlock warily replied, watching John snap open one of the cases.

“Good.” He lifted the disc out on the tip of his finger, dropping it into the waiting tray before nudging it closed and grabbing the remote. “Because we’ve got a movie marathon to run!”

“No, not again!” Sherlock moaned, slamming his spine into the sofa cushions, head lolling back on his neck. “I barely made it through the other ones!”

“Don’t give me that; you liked James Bond at least, I know you did.”

“Maybe the first eight hours.”

“Well, you’re in luck! This one’s only six.”

Sherlock groaned, lifting one of the throw pillows to his face, but John only laughed at his attempt to suffocate himself, pulling the pillow free and thumping him on the head with it as the menu music began.

“Hush,” he ordered, Sherlock too taken aback to respond, “you’ll miss the beginning.” He sat the remote down as the movie began, moving his plate of ravioli to his lap so he could eat while leaning back on the sofa, nudging Sherlock on the arm when he only continued to stare. “Eat,” he said, feeling especially bossy that evening, it would seem. “Before it gets cold.”

Unable to argue with the laws of thermodynamics, Sherlock huffed a dramatic sigh, making certain his displeasure was noted even as he too pulled his plate into his lap. “Is this a flashback?”

“No.”

“Then why does it say 1936?”

“Because that’s when they’re set.”

“What, all of them!?”

“No, they start in 1936 and then move up from there.”

“What’s that thing?”

“The golden idol.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“No, it’s not particularly important.”

“Then why’s he trying to steal it?”

“I mean, it’s  _ important _ , just not so much to the plot of the movie.”

“Oh. Who’s that guy?”

“René Belloq, he’s kind of like Indy’s arch-archaeologist-nemesis.”

“Indy?”

“Indiana, a lot of people shorten it.”

“Right. Who are they?”

“The native Hovito people.”

“Are they important?”

“How ‘bout we wait and see?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at prettysherlocksoldier, and on Twitter @consultingdr221


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short update, but tomorrow's is obnoxiously large, and this one has my ((favorite)) child in it, so, alas...

“But, if you like the series, why not get all the movies?” Sherlock asked, taking a much-needed sip of his coffee, the marathon going until 3:30am including snack breaks.

John sighed, his mug hitting the wooden surface of the tiny window table with a _clunk_ . “Be _cause_ ,” he stressed, perhaps a little louder than intended, a woman at the next table casting a dark look over them before shuffling her chair half an inch farther away, “the last one doesn’t count. It functions as a trilogy, and it will remain, forever, a trilogy.”

“But they got the same guy!” Sherlock countered, and John rolled his eyes, shaking his head out the window as he leaned back in his chair. “You can’t say it doesn’t count when it’s all the same cast. _And_ he’s still fighting Nazis.”

“He can fight Nazis all he wants, I’m still not buying the movie.” He picked up his drink, cradling it beneath his chin in preparation. “Even if it wasn’t a shameless money-grabber, it has Shia LaBeouf in it, and I can’t ever own anything with Shia LaBeouf in it.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, watching a swallow move down the man’s throat.

John looked back out the window, eyes glancing toward a puddle on the ground, the water dancing with seemingly ceaseless rain. “It’s personal,” he said, a cryptic smile hooking at his lips, but, before Sherlock could question the absurdity, the remainder of their party arrived—both damp, but only one of them incensed over it.

“It is _December_!” Irene railed, scraping a chair into the space beside Sherlock before crashing down onto the seat. “The least it could do is snow!”

“And then you’ll complain about that,” Molly said, moving in beside Irene as John shuffled closer to Sherlock, opening up space.

“Will not.”

“Will too.”

“Before this devolves into the two of you blowing raspberries at each other,” John interjected, rising from his seat, hands on the table as he leaned into the center of the group, “I think some caffeine is in order. Usuals?”

The women nodded.

“I’ll buy yours on Monday before class,” Molly said, referring to their usual pre-anatomy ritual, while Irene picked at her navy-varnished nails.

“And I’ll continue to let you be seen with me.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” John grumbled, ignoring Irene’s glare and walking to the counter, so she turned it on Sherlock and Molly as they laughed.

“Don’t encourage him,” she snapped, and Sherlock cleared his throat, taking up his coffee while Molly busied herself with depilling the ends of her scarf, “and, anyway”—she crossed her legs, leaning back in her chair—“that’s no way to treat someone who’s doing you a favor.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

Molly smiled down at her scarf.

“You know the LGBT Society holiday party is coming up,” Irene barrelled on, ignoring his interruption. “The theme is _The Nutcracker_ , everyone has to pick a character and come dressed to the nines, it’s going to be _legendary_ , but, the point is, I’ve circled the wagons and collected an _impressive_ list of attractive single-”

“No,” Sherlock interjected, coffee nearly sloshing out the sides as he slammed his mug onto the table. “Absolutely not.”

“You’ve gotta get back out there sometime!” Irene urged, unfolding her legs and planting her elbows on the table as she stretched toward him. “And this is the crème de la gay crème, handpicked by yours truly. I used a spreadsheet and everything!”

Sherlock raised a brow.

“Fine,” Irene muttered, flicking a hand in the air, “I wrote their information on graph paper, but-”

“No, no ‘but’, no conjunctions of any kind.” He waved his palms between them, fending off the assault. “It’s only been a week! I’m not ready for...graph paper!”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re broken up about it,” Irene scoffed with a roll of her eyes, missing the sharp look Molly speared her with. “Probably more relieved than anything. You two were never a match.”

“Cheers,” Sherlock muttered, more out of pride than offense, willing to show up at the party as a sugar plum fairy before he’d let Irene know she was right.

“And, besides, the party is a whole fortnight from now.” She shrugged a shoulder, as if that were the answer to all possible arguments. “Plenty of time to get over your _Sleepless in Seattle_ phase.”

“What about Meg Ryan?” John appeared at Molly’s back, biting his lip as he lowered the two mugs in front of their respective owners, Molly’s whipped cream wobbling precariously.

“Nothing,” Sherlock grumbled, narrowing his eyes at the woman as he lifted his cup, but Irene pretended not to notice, addressing John as if he’d never spoken.

“Sherlock’s too busy pining over Dicktor to appreciate my efforts to get him laid.”

John froze in the middle of pulling out his chair, a strangely blank expression clouding his face a moment before he blinked, huffing a short laugh. “How selfish of him,” he remarked, smiling as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’m not pining,” he said sharply, glaring at Irene’s quirked brow, “I just don’t want _you_ setting me up.”

“Well, what if I told you Molly helped me pick the guys?”

Sherlock gaped at the small brunette, the eyes she wouldn’t meet widening with betrayal. “Molly!?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it helping, exactly,” she murmured, smoothing the sides of her whipped cream with a spoon. “I just...eliminated a few of the options.”

“More like half,” Irene grumbled, and Molly ducked her head with a blush, looking back up when Sherlock stretched his hand across the table to cover her wrist.

“You’re forgiven,” he said, drawing away with a final pat to the girl’s arm.

Molly buried her giggle in her mocha, carefully avoiding Irene’s daggered eyes.

“Honestly, Sherlock, all you have to do is show up, make a little small talk, and fob off to an empty broom cupboard.” Irene’s manicured hands flit through the air as she spoke, sharp slices and jabs of frustration. “And, again, it’s two weeks from now. Surely you’ll be ready to move on by then.”

“Oh, for the love of- Let him alone, Irene!” John snapped, the table rattling with the impact of his mug. “If he’s not ready, he’s not ready!”

Sherlock froze, lips slightly parted and eyes wide as he stared at the side of his friend’s face. The lower half of Molly’s face was obscured by the whipped cream atop her drink, but her eyes were saucers, darting between Irene’s godsmacked expression and John’s blazing glare, which tempered in the seconds that followed, a sheepish blush creeping into the blond’s cheeks.

“And don’t call him Sherly,” he muttered, bowing his head to his coffee, and Molly hiccuped a startled laugh, coughing as she wiped whipped cream from her nose.

“Don’t drown,” Irene chided, thumping her on the back, and the topic of Sherlock’s love life was forgotten as the girls began bickering over the level of Molly’s eating ineptitude.

John seemed to be trying to crawl into his coffee cup in shame, his arms tight to his sides as he hunched over the table, cheeks still burning.

Sherlock nudged him under the table with his knee. “Thanks,” he mouthed, and John smiled, spine straightening a little as he nodded back.

“And _then_ ,” Irene was raging when Sherlock tuned back into the conversation, Molly shaking her head in preemptive disapproval of whatever was about to happen, “you nearly cut your finger off making tea last month.”

“Well, if _someone_ would do their dishes!”

“That knife wasn’t mine!”

“You used it to slice those carrots for your salad.”

“I’ve never cut a vegetable in my _life_!”

“Warm up?” John brushed his elbow against Sherlock’s arm, getting his attention before nodding down at the dwindling coffee in his hands.

“Might as well,” Sherlock replied, lifting his cup into John’s waiting hand, and then settled back in his chair, savoring the sniping sounds of the season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feelings of certain characters toward certain actors and films do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the author. Except in this case because that movie was embarrassing.
> 
> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long. And domestic. And maybe a little sad? I'll leave that one up to you.

“John?” Sherlock turned his head toward the sound of the door, catching the embossed paper card draped over his nose before it slipped away.

“Yes?” John answered, voice wafting up the stairs as heavy thumps signalled the removal of his boots. “You alright?”

“Oh, he’s fine!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice broke in, her heels clicking against the foyer floor below. “He’s just sulking.”

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“About what?” John asked, ignoring his outrage, and, if Sherlock wasn’t dedicated to his dramatic reveal, he’d go down there and give them both a healthy piece of his mind.

“How should I know?” she huffed, the image of her tossing her hands up in exasperation crystalline in Sherlock’s mind. “He wouldn’t tell me. Just wanted an audience for all his _sighing_.”

“Mrs. Hudson!” he snarled, and the woman tutted back into her flat, the door creaking closed a moment before John’s footsteps started up the stairs.

Sherlock centered himself on the sofa, making sure the card was splayed to cover the entirety of his face, and then stilled as the living room door opened, the soft padding of John’s socked feet coming to a halt beside him.

“Explain.”

Sherlock pulled down a corner of the card just enough for one eye to peer out from behind the decorative paper. “I got a letter.”

“I see that,” John said, rather like a teacher commenting on a child’s finger painting. His arms were crossed over his chest, one brow rising as Sherlock only blinked at him. “From who?”

“My parents,” Sherlock replied, voice muffled as the heat of his breath was reflected back by the paper shield.

“Okay.” He uncrossed his arms, lowering to perch on the edge of the sofa beside Sherlock’s hip. “Can I see it?”

Sherlock stared at him a moment longer, and then lifted the card up with a flourish, turning his face away as he shoved the script-swirled interior beneath John’s chin. He curled his whole body away once John had taken the card from him, bending his knees up to rest the soles of his feet against John’s back, folding his hands into his armpits in a stroppy version of the fetal position.

“You’re invited!” John announced, voice lifting to convey the printed exclamation point. “Mr. Siger and Mrs. Violet Holmes request the honor of your presence at their 23rd Annual—Jesus, that’s a long time!—Christmas Charity Ball at 6pm on the evening of December 24th. A variety of seasonal cocktails and hors d'oeuvres will be served throughout the evening, as well as a five-course dinner—Is one of those cheese? I’ve always wondered—beginning at 7pm. Following dinner will be the much-anticipated charity auction, all proceeds of which will go to Save the Children to help in their humanitarian efforts to improve the lives of children around the world. Live music will be played throughout the event, with a dance floor opening later in the night. A formal dress code will be strictly enforced. Please RSVP at your earliest convenience with the card provided.”

Sherlock stared at the sofa cushions, holding his breath as he waited for a reaction.

“So it’s...a party.”

“No!” He flung himself onto his back, arms and legs kicking out, John’s fingers clutching at his jumper to keep from being shoved off the sofa. “It’s not a _party_ ! It’s their Christmas _ball_!”

John blinked down at him, hand still tangled in the emerald wool over Sherlock’s ribs. “So...it’s a rich-people party?”

“No! Well, yes, but that’s not the _point_!” He sat up just enough to rip the pillow out from under his head, holding it against his face with a forearm.

John chuckled above him, fingers unwinding from his jumper before reappearing as a tug at the throw pillow’s corner. “Well, how about you stop trying to suffocate yourself and tell me what the point _is_?”

Sherlock held fast a moment longer, and then loosened his grip with a mammoth sigh, staring at the ceiling as he allowed John to pull the pillow free. “The point is”—he paused, a swallow moving down his throat—“that the Trevors are also invited.” Keeping his eyes fixed overhead, he saw John’s blurry figure snap toward him, the leather sofa squeaking under his jeans.

“They-They are?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded again. “Mr. Trevor is a friend of my father’s from the club.” He dropped his eyes, turning his face to focus instead on the swirling red pattern of the upholstery on John’s chair. “They’ve been coming to the ball the past couple years. That’s how we met. Initially,” he muttered, the words already free before he thought to cage them, and he shifted his gaze to the floor, plucking at his fingernails over his chest.

“Fuck,” John breathed, eloquent as ever, but it did prompt a zephyr of laughter from Sherlock’s lips, the air in his lungs growing less heavy. “I mean, that’s- That’s gotta be- Fuck!”

“It’s okay,” he assured, shaking his head as he sat up, leveraging his palms into the sofa to drag himself back against the armrest. “I’ll just tell mum I can’t go. Come up the next morning instead.”

“What, and not be with your family on Christmas Eve?” John closed the card, placing it on the table and beginning to search the surrounding area. “No, it’s your own damn house; don’t let Victor drive you out of it. What’s this thing say?” He pulled a small cream-colored card up from the floor, turning it over in his hand before thrusting it into Sherlock’s face with a triumphant, “Aha!”

Sherlock leaned back, blinking as his eyes brought the words into focus. It was, as far as he could tell, a standard RSVP request—yes or no; allergies or dietary restrictions—and he tilted his head to peer around it, raising a brow at John’s exultant gaze.

John rolled his eyes, glancing at the card again before turning it back to point at a particular line. “It says you can bring a guest,” he explained, apparently under the impression Sherlock had forgotten how to read in his grief.

“Yes,” he said, taking the card so it wouldn’t be an inch from his face any longer. “I don’t see how that helps the present situation. Although it would be rather entertaining to introduce my brother to Irene.”

John laughed, his one time meeting Mycroft no doubt enough to be entertained by the visual. “Well, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of _that_ , but I was actually thinking of me.”

Sherlock blinked, certain he’d misunderstood. “Thinking of you...what?”

“Going with you,” John replied, forehead furrowing as he regarded Sherlock’s stunned expression. “If that’s not...going to make you pass out...”

“No, I- Sorry, I just- I’m...surprised,” he admitted, the unfamiliar word stilted as it rattled off his tongue, and John looked equally taken aback, head shifting back on his neck as his blue eyes stuttered over a blink.

“Why?” he asked, the genuine confusion surprising Sherlock even further. “It’s a stuffy family Christmas party your ex is gonna be at. Kind of in the Best Friend Handbook that I run interference on that sort of thing.” He chuckled, the comment not intended to be carrying life-altering information, but, in spite of Sherlock being confident John was _his_ best friend, it hadn’t occurred to him the endearment could go both ways.

“I’m…” Sherlock started, voice a pitiful, breathy thing, and John’s amusement gave way to confusion, “your best friend?”

John blinked, mouth twitching in an aborted smile as his eyes scanned Sherlock’s face, finding no hint of humor. “Of- Of course you are,” he said with a gentle nod of his head. “I’d have thought that was obvious.”

“It...may have been,” Sherlock muttered, looking down at his hands where they twisted in his lap, “I suppose I was just...caught off guard...hearing it.”

John smiled, giving Sherlock’s knee a firm tap as he stood. “Well, sorry to break it to you, but it’s true. You’re stuck with me.” He lifted his hands out in a shrug before disappearing into the kitchen, the sound of water hitting the metal bottom of the kettle drifting in a few moments later. “I’m going to eat your cheese course, drink your champagne, and make your mother like me more than you.”

“She already likes you more than me,” Sherlock said, hurrying his bare feet across the hardwood and leaping into his chair by the fire. “Queen Mary is her alma mater.”

“She didn’t want you to go to Imperial?” John asked, stepping back from the counter to see around the large red armchair.

Sherlock shrugged. “She didn’t care much, really. My father went to Imperial,” he explained, raising his voice as John moved to put the kettle on the stove. “They’re always bickering over which is the better school, cheering for opposing sports teams, the usual. But my brother went to Queen Mary, so she conceded me rather gracefully.”

“How big of her,” John teased, reentering the living room to drape himself widthwise across his chair. “What did Mycroft go through for again?”

“Law and Political Science,” Sherlock said, bobbing his head side-to-side with the poshest accent he could manage, and John laughed, stretching his toes toward the fireplace.

“He’s doing some Parliament thing now, isn’t he?”

“Last I heard.” Sherlock pulled his knees up in front of him, trying to conserve heat as he wriggled his chilled toes. “He never says anything specific, though. Apparently, it’s ‘confidential’.” He curled his fingers around the word, rolling his eyes, and John smiled, reaching behind him to grab the blanket off his chair and chuck it at Sherlock’s face.

“You’re making me cold,” he said, grinning when Sherlock sneered, and then turned his eyes to the fire, allowing him at least a little dignity as he hastily tucked the blanket around his feet. “You know, I never asked, did Mycroft...say anything about me? After you two left?”

Sherlock frowned at the side of John’s face, uncertain if it was a trick of the firelight making it look pinker than normal. “Like what?”

John shrugged, a swallow bobbing down his throat as he plucked at a loose thread on the armrest. “I don’t know, anything, really. What he thought of me.”

“You only talked for a few minutes.”

“At least five,” John amended, making eye contact just long enough to smile. “You took _forever_ in the loo.”

“There was a queue,” he said, glaring at the curling corner of John’s mouth, and then dropped his gaze to the floor, trying to remember.

It had been almost a year ago, when Mycroft had, by chance or his mother’s insistence, been leaving the city for the family home on the same day Sherlock finished his exams. They’d settled on meeting at the coffee shop Sherlock and his friends frequented, but only John had been there at the time, choosing to stay even after Sherlock had told him of his brother’s impending arrival. They had been comparing exam scars at their usual table by the window when Mycroft had appeared, an austere silhouette hovering over them like a bad omen, but John had greeted him warmly enough, standing and offering his hand. Mycroft—albeit with a condescending quirk of his brow—took it, and then Sherlock had scampered away to the loo, leaving John to wrangle the wolves until he returned. The atmosphere had been neither awkward nor amicable when he got back to the table, and he’d gathered his bag and said his goodbyes as quickly as possible, sweeping out into the waiting town car before Mycroft could do anything Sherlock would regret.

Sherlock remembered most of that trip as a competition of who could be quiet the longest, but one small script of conversation seemed to have survived the purge, and he frowned at the swirls in the carpet, trying to perfect the recollection.

“He said you seemed competent,” he answered, and John turned to face him, head tilting as his nose wrinkled.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted with a shrug. “He didn’t expound. He asked how long I’d known you, I told him, he made a ‘Hmm’ noise, and then said you seemed ‘reasonably competent’.”

“Oh, now it’s _reasonably_ competent,” John snipped, jaw tight as he looked back to the fire. “And what, exactly, am I supposed to be _reasonably_ competent _at_?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock echoed, bemused by the vitriol in the reaction. “Like I said, he didn’t give any details.”

John huffed, foot tapping an unheard rhythm in the air, and then drew in a deep breath, shoulders lowering as he blew it out. “Well, I suppose it could be worse.” He smiled, twisting his head around as the kettle began whistling in the kitchen. “I could have been _barely_ competent.”

“Or incompetent,” Sherlock offered, John scoffing as he rushed from the room.

“Me, incompetent? Never. You want tea?”

“Black. Not sugar, honey.”

“Sure thing, pumpkin.”

“I _meant_ -”

“I know what you meant.” He entered the room with a laugh, shaking his head at Sherlock’s sour expression and passing him down a cup. “I’m sure you’d come up with a much more original pet name than ‘honey’.”

“Like what?” Sherlock asked, sipping his honey-sweetened tea, a cold-weather preference only John was privy to.

“I can’t give you suggestions.” John shook his head, smirking over the chipped lip of his faded blue mug. “That would ruin the romance.”

Sherlock snorted, John chuckling as he looked back to the fire, and they fell into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional sip and swallow of tea.

“You up to anything tonight?” John asked his cup, watching the last of his tea swirl around the sides.

“On a Tuesday?” Sherlock replied, lifting a brow. “Nothing but homework. You?”

John twitched a shoulder, taking a slow drink of tea before he answered. “Going out for a bit,” he muttered, fingers tapping against the side of his mug. “Dinner at 8. Not sure what after that.”

“Dinner with…?” Sherlock pressed, and John smiled, glancing at him briefly before looking back to the fire.

“Abby. Well, Abigail, I guess. She’s one of the weekend baristas at the cafe.”

“The redhead?”

“The blonde.”

“Ah.” His tea was just below tolerable temperature, the taste of honey growing thick and sticky on his tongue, but he forced a swallow down his throat for something to fill the silence, glancing at the clock on the mantle. “You should probably get ready,” he said, bobbing a nod at the time. “It’ll take at least half an hour to get to her place.”

“Who said I’m going to her place?” John challenged, but did unfold his legs from the chair, placing his feet on the floor and empty cup on the table. “And how do you even know where her place _is_?”

“You always pick a spot near them for the first date, and she had a stamp on her hand last Saturday from a club in Southbank. Given how early she had to be at work that morning, I assume she wanted to keep Friday night close to home.” He shrugged, looking into the flames and choking down another saccharine mouthful, watching John rise in his peripheral vision.

“Unbelievable,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Every time. How do you do that _every_ time?”

“I don’t mean to,” Sherlock murmured, running a thumb along the rim of his cip, and John stopped on his way to the kitchen, spinning around on his heels.

“No, I- It’s not a _bad_ thing,” he urged, shaking his head. “It’s… Well, it’s amazing! Super inconvenient for Christmas presents”—a laugh hissed through Sherlock’s teeth—“but amazing all the same.”

Sherlock could feel his cheeks heating, and quickly turned back to the fire to excuse the blush. “Are we doing Christmas presents this year?” he asked, and John seemed content to let the compliments subside, his footsteps retreating into the kitchen.

“You already gave me this watch, but I’ll get you something, yeah.”

“That doesn’t count,” Sherlock argued, leaning over the armrest to see John rinsing his cup in the sink. “I didn’t get it for you.”

“No, but you gave it to me, so it’s a present.” He turned off the water, slotting his cup onto the drying rack before looking back, eyes rolling as they took in Sherlock’s exasperated expression. “Fine,” he muttered, rattling his head, “but nothing big! I don’t need you getting me the new iPhone when all I can afford is a pair of socks.”

“Why would I get you the new iPhone?” Sherlock asked, bewildered. “You go into a dissertation on the inescapable cycle of capitalism every time we pass an Apple store.”

“THEY ARE MANUFACTURING THEIR PRODUCTS TO BREAK AND THEN CHARGING A PREMIUM FOR EXCLUSIVE, INACCESSIBLE SERVICES, but that’s...that’s not the point.” He cleared his throat, avoiding Sherlock’s smug gaze. “I’m just saying we should put a cap on it. A _firm_ cap,” he added, throwing in a scolding finger for good measure, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, tossing a flippant hand through the air.

“If you must,” he sighed, and John’s gaze roved over the ceiling, head shaking with fond frustration.

“Twenty quid?”

“Forty.”

“Thirty and we call it a draw?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, lips shifting side-to-side as he considered. “Fine,” he grumbled, turning his head away in a huff, ignoring John’s sigh as he started up the stairs to prepare for his date.

The floorboards creaked under his feet, and Sherlock watched the ceiling, mapping out John’s movements in his mind.

To his dresser first. Then the closet. The bed. Back to the closet. The bed again. Walking toward the door.

“Did you borrow my belt?” he shouted down the stairs.

Sherlock turned his face to the door, lifting his chin and drawing in a deep breath. “Check the jeans you wore yesterday.”

Once again to the closet.

“Ta!” he called, voice muffled by the floorboards, and Sherlock chuckled down at the rug, shaking his head as he pulled his book off the table—a volume on yellow fever John had recommended to continue his pathology education.

He was finishing the first chapter when John reappeared, dressed simply and not nearly warm enough in a black-and-white-striped jumper and dark jeans, grey socks poking out from the hem.

“Well,” he sighed, throwing his arms out to his sides as he spun on the carpet, “do I look _reasonably_ presentable.” He waggled his brows, the offense only in jest, but Sherlock slipped a bookmark in his mind to ask Mycroft for specifics later, knowing it would needle John more than he’d let on.

“You look like you’ll freeze to death,” Sherlock muttered, glaring as John rolled his eyes.

“I have a coat.”

“You need a warmer one.”

“Great idea, how ‘bout you knit one for Christmas, _mum_.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but John didn’t blink, long seconds of staring passing before Sherlock gave in with a huff. “Take my peacoat.” He bobbed his head down the hall toward his room, John glancing at the door before looking back with a frown. “It doesn’t fit me,” he explained with a shrug. “Too short in the sleeves.”

“Then why keep it?” John asked, disappearing down the corridor, Sherlock’s bedroom door squeaking a moment later.

“My aunt bought it for me last Christmas, and mother kept insisting we’d get it tailored.” He shook his head, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “Of course, that never happened, and then it was spring, and...” He trailed off, presuming his point made, and John hummed as he moved back to the living room, head bowed to do up the last of the buttons.

“Well, it’s definitely warm,” he said, checking the folds of the collar, “I’ll give it that.”

Sherlock swallowed, his face heating from more than just the crackling fire, quite certain that being warm was not the coat’s only merit.

The wool was a deep blue, not quite so dark as to call it navy, but not bright enough to obscure the wearer either. Not that it seemed possible to obscure John Watson, the smooth planes of fabric drawing out the strands of similar color in his eyes, while the cool hue seemed to add even more bronze to the rounds and edges of his face. He had combed his hair after getting dressed for the evening, but the gesture was unraveling now, the tidily tousled effect reassuring you both that he had made an effort to look nice for you, and that he’d look almost the same if he hadn’t, and Sherlock suddenly found himself wishing he’d let John contract frostbite rather than subject himself to this.

“Not sure it suits me, though,” John continued, brushing down the front of the coat, oblivious to Sherlock’s agony. “Bit posh.”

“No, it’s- It’s fine,” Sherlock murmured, burying his face in his book to hide the worst of his blush, “and, as I said, I’ve no use for it.”

John chuckled, fidgeting with the cuffs as he moved to the top of the stairs. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to replace my whole wardrobe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed, raising his voice as John began descending the steps. “Most of your trousers can stay.”

“I know how many jumpers I have!” he shouted, boots clunking against the hardwood downstairs. “Don’t wait up!” The door closed behind him before Sherlock needed to reply, a fact he was thankful for, as his tongue had welded itself to the roof of his mouth, and he rose from his chair, hoping a refill of his tea would unstick it.

It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable with John going on dates, or even unaccustomed to it, he’d just never been in such close _proximity_ to the event. He had received texts, frantic pleas for restaurant recommendations or post-farewell assessments, but he’d never been there to see John off, to witness the polishing and prepping firsthand, and his mind couldn’t help but wander down a very different path of possibility.

Would they go somewhere nice? It hardly seemed necessary, familiar as they were with one another and takeaway, but John would insist on some show of propriety, at least at first. Still, it would be somewhere quiet and casual, befitting their established status.

If it wasn’t all in Sherlock’s head, that is.

The water gurgled from the kettle, steam wafting across his face as he leaned over the cup, watching the water slowly dyed brown as it climbed toward the rim. Returning to the living room, he clicked the cup down onto one of the coasters Mrs. Hudson had snuck in without their noticing, and returned to his book, making note of the time on the mantle clock.

John would be gone at least a few hours, probably more, giving Sherlock a ticking countdown for when he’d need to be in his room pretending to sleep. It was trying enough watching John leave on his date, he certainly didn’t need to be there for the play-by-play when he returned.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was finding it impossible to occupy his mind, his thoughts inevitably drifting back to John and Abigail laughing in a dimly lit restaurant, their fingers intertwined across the table. He lasted 45 minutes with his book before growing bored of the graphic descriptions of toxic-phase yellow fever symptoms and moving to the sofa, feet dangling over the edge of the armrest as he stretched across the length of it, flicking through the channels until he found something suitably distracting.

“Of course she’s cheating!” he barked at the screen, misplacing his aggravation onto the balding man being interviewed by the host. “Look at the state of her ring!”

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson’s door creaked open, footsteps moving to the base of the stairs. “Did you call me?”

“No,” he snapped, and then drew in a breath, easing it out as he reminded himself who he was talking to. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I was just...talking to the telly.”

“About what?” the woman asked, starting up the stairs, but Sherlock did not reply, waiting for her to walk into the room and see for herself. “Oh, I was watching this downstairs!” she said, dropping her voice as the advertisements ended and the host welcomed them back. “I think she’s cheating. I mean, she’s _so_ much better looking than him, isn’t she?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock said, smiling as Mrs. Hudson huffed, flapping a hand down at him.

“Oh, please, you’re gay, not blind! You could count all his hairs without needing to take off your shoes!”

“So, I’m gay, unobservant, and can’t count past twenty,” Sherlock summated, sitting up and shuffling over on the sofa as Mrs. Hudson laughed.

“Your words, dear,” she said, glancing at the space he’d opened, a brow raising in question.

“She’s definitely cheating,” he stated in way of an answer, and the woman sat down beside him, a soft smile he pointedly didn’t look at on her face. “Her wedding ring’s nearly gone green with tarnish. No happily married woman would let her jewelry fall into that level of disrepair.”

“When did you see her ring?” Mrs. Hudson asked, leaning forward with a squint.

“They showed her backstage earlier.”

“Ah.”

Mrs. Hudson did the majority of the talking for the remainder of the episode, slapping him on the arm in anxious triumph as the woman’s boyfriend was revealed, a massive man the jilted husband made no attempt to confront. Another rerun followed, a boring paternity case Sherlock solved within the first three minutes, Mrs. Hudson guessing endless wrong reasons for how he knew the man wasn’t the father.

“I’ll tell you at the end,” Sherlock finally agreed, shaking his head at the woman’s smug smile.

“Too right,” she said with a nod, looking back to the screen a moment before a frown creased her brow. “Say, where’s John?” she asked, turning her head back toward the stairs. “I know I saw him come in earlier.”

“He did.” Sherlock swallowed, trying to clear some of the stiffness from his tone. “For a bit. He had a date.” He tried to say it as nonchalant as possible, and was fairly sure he’d succeeded, but Mrs. Hudson had a funny way of being perceptive at the most inconvenient of times, her eyes growing sharp as she searched the side of his face.

“A date? With who?”

Sherlock shrugged. “One of the baristas at the cafe. Anne or Amanda or something.”

Mrs. Hudson hummed, her eyes never leaving the little of his face he was willing to expose to her shrewd gaze. “Has he been seeing her long?”

“He never sees any of them long,” Sherlock snipped before he could think better of it, forcing his jaw to relax before continuing, “but this is his first date with this one.”

“Ah.” She said nothing more on the topic, her eyes eventually returning to the television, but she seemed eager to talk about anything _else_ after that, going into a near-tirade at the horrible pattern of the not-the-father’s tie. “If he were about twenty years older, I’d forgive it, but, really, there’s just no excuse for paisley on a man that young. And in such a _hideous_ color scheme!”

“It’s festive,” Sherlock said, entertained enough to play devil’s advocate, and, sure enough, Mrs. Hudson scoffed.

“That tie’s about as festive as meatloaf!” she spat, and Sherlock laughed, jumping when a voice sounded from downstairs.

“Hello?” John closed the door behind him, Sherlock not paying enough attention to have heard it open, and he glanced at the clock, frowning as he considered mechanical failure. John had only been gone three hours. “Mrs. Hudson? Is that you?” he called, stopping on the squeaking second step.

“Well, of course it is,” she chuckled, and John’s footsteps resumed. “It’s not as if Sherlock’s going to have a _girl_ over.”

“None could ever compare,” he said, monotone enough to be delivered as a barb, but the smile on Mrs. Hudson’s face as she batted his arm suggested she understood the larger intent.

“Well, this _girl_ had best be getting her beauty sleep.” She rose from the sofa, dropping a squeeze to his shoulder just as John entered the room, looking curiously between them. “Goodnight, dears,” she bade, patting John on the arm as she passed, and he frowned after her, turning a raised brow to Sherlock when she disappeared down the stairs.

“What was that about?” he asked, dropping his keys on the table as he moved into the kitchen. “She get you sucked into her talkshows?”

“Somewhat,” Sherlock replied, moving farther to one side of the sofa before John returned. “She likes- Hang on. IT WAS THE TURN-UPS ON HIS JEANS!”

“Of course it was, dear!” Mrs. Hudson yelled back, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head at the stairwell as John reappeared, eyebrows in his hair.

“What was that about?” he asked, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, his head half-turned to watch the kettle.

“Nothing,” he shrugged. “I was just...deducing.”

John smiled, that appearing enough of an explanation, and then disappeared, two cups clinking down onto the counter a few moments later. “So,” he said as the cutlery drawer rattled, “how was your night?”

“Fine,” Sherlock answered with a curious frown. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You deduced crap telly”—the kettle began hissing, falling into silence as the stove dial clicked—“and you were reading that book when I left you.”

“Lifestyles of the rich and idle,” Sherlock deadpanned, John laughing over the sound of tumbling water.

“Well, it still sounds like a better night than I had.”

Sherlock’s stomach tightened, but he managed to maintain neutrality in his expression as John entered the room, his footsteps gliding to keep the two mugs from sloshing. “You were back earlier than I’d anticipated,” he said, taking the cup John lowered.

“Would’ve been back even earlier if she hadn’t insisted on dessert. Not that I minded her ordering dessert! I mean, I _did_ , but not-”

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock intervened, John dropping a nod as he sat down on the sofa, mug gingerly held aloft over the rug.

“Nearly the first thing out of her mouth was asking what kind of medicine I wanted to practice.”

“That doesn’t seem particularly-”

“ _And_ what the starting salary would be,” John added, and Sherlock opened his mouth in silent understanding, nodding down at his cup as he took the inaugural sip. “I didn’t think people did that outside of romantic comedies. Always seemed too far-fetched.”

“Perhaps she’s an aspiring accountant,” Sherlock teased, avoiding John’s glare by taking another drink.

“She’s a drama major.”

“Ah.” He swallowed just to busy his mouth, hovering his lips over the liquid to appear occupied as long as possible.

“Oh, for the love of, are you _still_ on that!?”

“On what?”

“Just because that _one group_ of theatre kids yelled at you-”

“They _screamed_ at me in a Waterstones.”

“Because you said the M-word.”

“I WAS IN A WATERSTONES!”

“All the world’s a stage.” He returned Sherlock’s glare with a coy smile, chuckling into his drink. “At any rate, you can’t hate all of them.”

“You are cordially invited to watch me,” Sherlock snapped, and John choked on his tea, eyes watering as he laughed around coughs.

“Pass me the remote,” he croaked, bobbing his head at the device, his free hand occupied with massaging his throat.

“Why?”

“Because I had a terrible date and then almost drowned on PG Tips.” He pulled his hand off his throat, reaching toward the remote with a childish grabbing gesture, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking it up and placing it in John’s waiting fingers. “Aw, you do care,” he crooned, beaming as Sherlock stuck out his tongue, and then input a channel, the screen changing to a football match.

“World Cup starts tonight,” he said, Sherlock familiar enough with John to know what that meant, however much the sport itself remained a mystery.

“Are we playing?” he asked, and John chuckled, shaking his head.

“We’re not in it this year. This is Japan and New Zealand.”

“Right,” Sherlock muttered, trying to appear engaged, but his eyes drifted in and out of focus, causing him to lose track of the ball until a roar from the crowd signified it had gone near one of the nets. “Who do we want to win?” he asked as New Zealand—the blue team, he’d gathered—scored, a small portion of the stadium roaring in triumph.

“For love of Queen and country? New Zealand. To not be disappointed? Japan.” He placed his cup on the table, the sofa shifting under him. “They’re the better team overall, and playing at home, which is always an advantage. I’m gonna make some popcorn,” he said, standing up with a stretch, “and change into more comfortable trousers. You want anything?”

Sherlock blinked, needing a moment to focus on the intent of the question rather than his preferred interpretation. “No,” he said, voice distant to his own ears, but John didn’t seem to find anything amiss, nodding and vanishing into the kitchen.

The popcorn was performing its swan song just as he returned from upstairs, leaping the last flight in a handrail-assisted bound to turn off the microwave. There was a _thunk_ as their only large bowl hit the counter, a rustle of puffed corn and paper packaging, and then the clinking of bottles, the fridge door rattling shut as John reappeared in the living room, beer and popcorn in hand.

“Didn’t figure you’d want one,” he said, shifting the beer bottle, and Sherlock shook his head to confirm, watching from the corner of his eye as John sat down, now closer and wearing navy Barts Rugby sweatpants. “There’s some of that Belgian blonde left in the crisper, I think,” he added with a smirk, never missing an opportunity to mock the irony of Sherlock’s beer preferences, but Sherlock only shook his head again, not feeling up to rising to the challenge. John chuckled, returning his attention to the screen. “Anything happen?”

“They ran one way, then the other.”

John laughed, lodging the bowl of popcorn between their thighs in open invitation. “Nobody scored, then,” he surmised, taking a long drink of the dark beer Sherlock still felt nauseous recalling.

“I don’t think so; there was no yelling. No _positive_ yelling, anyway.”

John smiled, leaning back into the cushions with a sigh, his shoulders slumping with the released tension. He focused on the game after that, the two of them nibbling popcorn in relative silence, and Sherlock redoubled his efforts to understand what was going on, sneaking glances at the colors of the match rolling over John’s face hardly a useful occupation.

Japan scored, tying it up, and then an eternity seemed to pass, the popcorn and John’s beer running dry in the interim, though he only replaced the latter, rushing into the kitchen and back during a break. Finally, Japan scored again, the crowd turning thunderous, and Sherlock glanced at the clock ticking down in the corner of the screen as the players tackled one another on the pitch.

“Auckland probably won’t be able to tie it up, will they?” he asked, turning with a frown when his question went unanswered. “Jo-” He stalled, the closing consonants dying on his tongue, all the breath in his lungs seeming to wither with them.

John’s head was lolled to the side, lips slightly parted, his long lashes quivering with the dreams of deep sleep. His half-empty beer was still in his hand, cradled against the back of the sofa, and Sherlock reached for that first, gently extricating it from the man’s limp fingers. The rhythm of his breath staggered, and then returned to normal, Sherlock careful to shift his weight off the sofa as gradually as possible so as not to rock his sleeping form.

Once standing, he tiptoed across the room to pull the blanket from John’s chair, flapping it open and draping it atop him as lightly as possible, tugging at the sides to ensure complete coverage. Satisfied, Sherlock had no reason left to linger, but linger he did, watching John’s peaceful face and wondering just how badly his neck would hurt the following morning. Perhaps he ought to wake him, but no sooner did the thought occur to him than he realized he couldn’t follow through, John looking far too comfortable for Sherlock to find the heart to disturb him.

Just then, John shifted, Sherlock’s heart leaping into his throat as he began concocting explanations for hovering over him while he slept, but John only tangled his fingers in the blanket, tugging it tight to his chest and tucking his head.

Sherlock couldn’t breathe, sure his ribs were cracking under the strain of the heart he could feel expanding impossibly in his chest, and this lack of oxygen was the only plausible reason for his hand to stretch out without his permission, tucking a stray strand of John’s hair back into formation from where it had dropped to tickle his forehead. Bare nanoseconds later, he recoiled, his left hand clutching onto its pair as if it had been burned, and he stepped back, certain the thumping of his heart was loud enough to wake the dead. His calf clipped the corner of the coffee table as he backed away, the bottle rattling as he held his breath, but John didn’t stir, and Sherlock moved down the corridor as quick as he dared, collapsing against his door the second it closed.

“Oh, god,” he gusted, sliding down into a pool of trembling limbs on the floor, his fingers kneading circles into his temples. “Get it together, Sherlock. Get it together,” he echoed, but, no matter how many times he said it, he could not drown out the pounding truth of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This chapter has time jumps in it, indicated by the rows of ********* because I thought making you click through to a new chapter would've broken the thread a little too much  
> 2) I've decided to extend this to Sherlock's birthday because I, 2a) wanted to add more sadness, and 2b) wanted to add more fluff. It'll all even out in the end.

“Remind me again why we’re here.”

“It’s the Barts vs Queen Mary rugby match.”

“They’re the same school.”

“Yes, but they each have a team, and they don’t play against one another in regular competition.”

“So they have to hold a special pissing contest in the middle of December?” Sherlock tugged his scarf farther up his face, a difficult task with the dexterity of his fingers lost to mittens.

Molly shook her head, unconcerned in spite of the snow flecking her yellow knit hat. “It’s a tradition.”

“So is polio, but we didn’t keep _that_ around,” Sherlock growled, scowling at Molly’s rolling eyes. “I don’t even go to this school, this is practically treason.”

“You can turn yourself in on Monday,” she mocked, rising onto her tiptoes to see over the bulbous pom on the hat of the man in front of her, Sherlock jumping as the crowd roared a moment later.

“Queen Mary just scored,” she reported from the skyway, and Sherlock blinked at her, growing more outraged with every toe he lost feeling in.

“IT’S THE SAME SCHOOL!” he railed, tempering his tone before he collected too many stares. “Who are we even cheering for, misplaced aggression?”

“I’m cheering for Queen Mary because Greg’s on the team, and you’re cheering for Barts because John’s the captain.”

Sherlock snapped his face to her, cold forgotten as heat licked up his neck. “Why-Why would you say that?” he stammered, hoping it would be written off to a shiver, and Molly seemed unaware of his panic, shrugging a shoulder, her eyes fixed on the match.

“Evens out that way, doesn’t it? And you know Mike _and_ John on the Barts team, whereas it’s just Greg on Queen Mary. Why?” She turned, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You wanna switch?”

“No,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head and looking back to the pitch, and Molly chuckled, also returning her attention to the action.

It was difficult to see through the snow, but Sherlock tried to follow John as best he could, squinting to keep track of him through the weaving bodies and ever-growing layers of mud. Supposedly, it was part of the charm of the event that it took place at one of the most inhospitable times of the year, but Sherlock couldn’t see the appeal. Large crowds were tedious enough, but throw in bitter cold, snow melting in his hair, and periodic screaming, and Sherlock was more apt to call it torture than a fun way to spend a Saturday. John had promised to treat him at the traditional Pizza Express takeover after the game, but the dough balls were growing less and less enticing with every rivulet of water creeping down his neck into his collar, and he was just about to tell Molly he’d meet them after when there was a sudden roar from the crowd, the stands rattling ominously beneath their feet as everyone leapt up at once.

“What the-” he sputtered, following everyone’s eyes out onto the pitch, and the source of the commotion was immediately apparent.

John had broken free from the mound of men Sherlock refused to use the proper name for—and, really, ‘scrum’ sounded even more suggestive—and was barrelling up the pitch, human-shaped mud monsters hot on his heels, and Sherlock heard an involuntary cry of anxious delight scrape out from his cold-burned throat.

“GO, JOHN, GO!!” Molly bellowed, bouncing on the stands, her hands waving wildly in the air, while Sherlock held his breath, watching the closest defender gaining on John’s back.

The goal line was completely obscured by the snow from their position, but John seemed to be able to see it, putting on a sudden burst of speed, and Sherlock’s hands lifted to his mouth in a mitten-clad prayer, teeth pressed into his bottom lip.

Five meters...three meters...one meter…

It might be days until his ears stopped ringing, but Sherlock couldn’t have cared less at the moment, the crowd shouting in one voice like a bomb going off, both sides apparently able to appreciate some good old fashioned showmanship.

“WOOOO!!” Molly screamed, grabbing his closest hand in hers and waving it in the air, jumping wildly. “Did you see that!? DID YOU SEE THAT!!?”

“What else would I have been looking at!?” Sherlock shouted back, but the girl had already gone back to screaming, rattling Sherlock’s arm in its socket as she pounded their entwined hands toward the sky.

Below them, John hoisted the ball in the air, spinning around in celebration before being unceremoniously swept off his feet by a tidal wave of teammates, flashes of blue shorts and neon boots the only thing distinguishing the men from the snow and mud of the ground beneath them. The game wasn’t over, however, and they gradually broke apart, John reappearing at the bottom, hoisted to his feet by a tall black teammate Sherlock thought he remembered as Marcus. They started toward the center of the pitch, Marcus nudging John on the arm, both of them laughing in some shared joke, and then Marcus jogged on ahead, John lifting his head to scan the crowd as he continued at a slower pace. It didn’t take him long to find them in the stands—Sherlock credited Molly’s highlighter-hued hat—and he lifted a hand, waggling his muddy fingers in the air.

“Ow! Molly!” Sherlock barked as the woman jumped, forcing him up onto his tiptoes if he didn’t want to lose his arm.

“Sorry!” she panted, not the slightest bit apologetic, and Sherlock shook his head, lifting up onto his toes just enough to see the entirety of John’s face when he grinned, and, though he’d be at a loss to explain it, he felt for certain John’s eyes were on him.

Even with the players cleaning up, they still arrived at Pizza Express in the dead zone between lunch and dinner, which was probably for the best, as the two teams and company combined took up the entire back half of the restaurant, scattered about between booths and shoved-together tables.

“I think I can safely say we’ll want...ten orders of dough balls to start?” Greg asked the room, draping his coat over the back of the chair on Molly’s left.

“Twenty!” Someone on the other side shouted, prompting a ripple of laughter, and Greg shook his head, addressing the waitress once more.

“Let’s go with fifteen,” he said, thanking her as she made a note and disappeared, and then slotted himself into the seat between Molly and Mike.

Marcus, John, and Sherlock sat opposite, with Sherlock sitting at the end of the table, something he insisted on both for personal space and ease of escape. Menus were scattered around the tables, being passed here and there to those who beckoned, but, for the most part, everyone seemed to have come prepared, and food and drinks were ordered when the waitress returned with a small army to carry and distribute the appetizers.

“How are these things so delicious?” John said, swiping garlic butter across the steaming center. “It’s butter and bread.”

“Exactly,” Molly replied, reaching over the water glasses to grab another, and the group laughed, quieting and leaning back as their drinks appeared.

“Wine?” John asked, watching the pinot noir being lowered on Sherlock’s right.

Sherlock shrugged, shifting the glass farther in from the edge. “I didn’t like any of the beer.”

“Neither did I,” said Molly, lifting her own glass of white toward him, Sherlock following suit to _clink_ them together over the table. “Besides, it’s Italian food. You’ve got to have wine with Italian food.”

“Unless you’re a poor uncultured medical student.”

“Hear, hear!” Mike concurred, he and John clinking the necks of their bottles with a laugh.

“I just prefer beer,” Marcus added, shrugging a shoulder and smiling around the lip of his bottle, though he had to pull it away when Greg held out his for their own salute.

“I can handle the white alright,” he said after a swallow, “but red reminds me of this god-awful cough syrup my mum used to give me.”

“Sure it wasn’t just wine?” Mike teased, earning a dough ball to the head that he promptly ate. “I’m just sayin’, it always puts me right to sleep.”

John smiled, elbowing Sherlock on the arm. “Maybe it’ll have that effect on you too.”

“Doubtful,” he replied, taking a sip with purposeful aplomb, and John rolled his eyes, sighing as he took another drink.

“If I ever get to sleep past 9 again, it’ll be a bloody miracle.”

“It was 10:30! I thought you were awake!”

“I got to bed late!”

“So the clocks move back two hours?”

“So,” Mike interrupted, a knowing smile on his face as John and Sherlock turned toward him, “how’s the roommate situation working out?”

John frowned, exchanging a curious glance with Sherlock. “Fine,” they said in tandem, and then jumped, startled by the uproar of laughter from their friends. “What?” John asked. “What’s so-”

“Margherita?”

“Here,” Sherlock answered, John’s voice joining him again, the group’s laughter growing louder as the waiter placed the pizza in front of them.

“I’ll have what they’re having,” John said to the waiter, who smiled, dropping off the rest of their pizzas before disappearing into the kitchen to grab the next delivery. “Seriously, what’s so funny?” John asked as their friends eased down into sighs and sips of drinks.

“Nothing, really,” Greg said, shaking his head. “We just weren’t sure how you two would get on, ya know, _living_ together. Thought it might end in bloodshed.”

“Does cutting myself on the vase he broke count?”

“That wasn’t even your vase!”

“Which only makes it worse, if you think about it,” John chirped, grinning at Sherlock’s glare as he drained the last of his beer. “Anyone else need more commoner swill?” he asked, rising from his seat and waggling his bottle for emphasis, chuckling as all the beer-drinkers at the table nodded, downing whatever little they had left. “Alright, I’ll go catch the waiter. Don’t eat all the good pieces!”

Sherlock placed an affronted hand to his chest, mouth gaping in faux offense, but John only pointed at the pizza, his eyes, and Sherlock in turn before weaving his way toward the main thoroughfare leading out of the kitchen. Sherlock chuckled, stopping abruptly as he turned to find a piece of their pizza had been replaced with an imposter, a single sliver of ricotta and spinach slotted in amongst the tomatoes and mozzarella. Eyes narrowed, it didn’t take long to find the culprit, Marcus currently struggling to break the strings of cheese still clinging onto the slice from between his teeth.

He chewed a few more times, swallowing and taking a drink of water in the silence, and then smiled, a sheepish thing made disingenuous by the twinkle in his eye. “I left the ones with the basil,” he muttered, and the whole group was laughing when John returned, brow furrowed down at the mismatched pizza.

“Is that- That wasn’t- Was it?” he asked, turning to Sherlock, who smiled, dragging the wayward piece onto his plate.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he remarked, biting off the point, and John rolled his eyes, ignoring the laughter and grabbing a basil-blanketed slice.

*****************************

“Bye!” John waved at the taxi as it pulled away from the curb in front of 221B, Sherlock plucking his wrist out of the air and leading him toward the front door.

“Come on,” he grumbled, “before you wake up the whole street.”

“It’s a Saturday night!” John said, jerking Sherlock’s arm as he threw his hands out. “They’re probably not even _home_.”

“Before you wake Mrs. Hudson, then,” he muttered, hanging on to John with one hand while his other rummaged in his pocket for the keys.

John scoffed, rocking back on his heels, Sherlock tugging him forward as he threatened to wobble off the steps. “Naw, she always waits up for us. I think she worries.”

“I can’t imagine why.” He pushed the door open, ushering John in ahead of him, the man halfway through flapping off his coat when Sherlock turned back from locking the door. “Stop that,” he snapped, trying to free John’s arms from the sleeves, “before you break something.”

“Like a vase?” John teased, and then broke out giggling, the resultant stumbling making Sherlock’s task impossible.

“Will you hold still!” he barked, but John was still caught up in narcissistic amusement, forcing Sherlock to buzz around him, tugging this way and that at the fabric until it finally pulled free.

“Boys?” Mrs. Hudson appeared in the crack of her door, scanning over them once before opening it fully, revealing a pink dressing gown and fuzzy black slippers, a bright green substance smeared in raccoon circles around her eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said at the same time John said “No”, the latter bursting into laughter while the former sighed. “He is,” he clarified, though he doubted there was a need, as John was now jumping in place, hand outstretched in an attempt to touch the light fixture. “I’m well within the legal limit.”

“Right,” Mrs. Hudson murmured, her eyes tracking John up and down and up and down. “Well...make sure he drinks some water before bed.”

Sherlock nodded, and John stopped jumping, still aware, it seemed, of when he was being talked about.

“What about water?” he asked, breathing uneven from exertion, his whole body turning as he glanced between them.

“I’m going to get you some,” Sherlock answered, planting his hands on John’s shoulders and steering him toward the stairs, Mrs. Hudson covering her grin with a hand before hiding behind closed doors.

“Good idea.” John nodded up at the stairwell, a disproportionate amount of his weight falling back onto Sherlock’s hands as they climbed. “I’m really drunk.”

There was a shrill blip of laughter from Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and John’s head dropped, eyes blinking with confusion, but Sherlock urged him on, reaching around to open the door before shooing him into the living room.

“There,” he sighed, more shoving than lowering the man onto the sofa, John hitting the leather with a soft “Oof!” “Stay,” he ordered, John having enough wherewithal to glare, but not enough to hold onto it, falling down into a lying position with a sigh, hand groping blindly for the throw pillow in the corner.

Sherlock rattled his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he stomped into the kitchen, feeling a secondhand hangover building in his frontal lobe. He pulled a glass from the cupboard, testing the tap water with his fingers until it ran cold, and then placed the cup into the stream, wiping the damp side down with the sleeve of his jumper as he returned to the living room.

John had managed to find the throw pillow, but also to knock it off the sofa, the pillow resting on the floor beneath the armrest his head now lay on. “I lost it,” he whined, and Sherlock might have laughed if he wasn’t so tired, simply sighing as he retrieved the displaced cushion.

“Here,” he said, trying to guide the pillow under John’s head one-handed, but the man sat up to take the water from him instead, and he temporarily abandoned the endeavor, sitting at John’s feet on the opposite end of the sofa.

John took several large gulps, and then lowered the cup to his lap, swiping away the lingering water from his bottom lip. “I don’t feel good,” he murmured, wincing as he lifted his head, and Sherlock raised a brow, shifting farther away on the sofa cushions.

“Like...you need a bucket?” he asked, but John shook his head, though only fractionally.

“No, I just...need to lie down.” He nodded, as if to congratulate himself on his fabulous idea, and then leaned forward to place the cup on the table, Sherlock pressing him back into the cushions as he wobbled.

“I’ll do it,” he said, taking the cup from John’s hand and placing it a good few inches from the table’s edge.

John grunted, tugging the blanket down from the back of the sofa and trying to wrangle it around himself. “You were right,” he murmured, frowning in deep concentration as he attempted to find the long edge, “about the scotch.”

“Of course I was.” He reached for a corner of the blanket, but John swatted him away, determined to struggle through on his own. “You’d already had five beers.”

“Never sicker.”

“What?”

“With...with the liquor...” John mumbled, brow furrowing as the thought faded from his eyes, and then blinked, sighing heavily as he tipped his head back against the sofa. “You were right,” he repeated with a groan, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head at the side of the man’s miserable face.

“Why _did_ you suggest shots?”

John’s shrugged, closing his eyes, face still pointed at the ceiling. “Was nervous,” he slurred, sleep pulling at his lengthening breaths.

“About what?” Sherlock asked, leaning closer as he dropped his voice. “That waitress decided to give you her number after your second round, I could’ve told you that if you’d asked.”

“No, not-” John’s eyes fluttered open, startling Sherlock with the intensity of their gaze. Midnight blue in the relative darkness of the flat, they fixed on him, swimming with something he couldn’t identify through the haze of exhaustion and alcohol, a question he was supposed to be answering without being asked, but he could only shake his head, helpless.

“Not what?” he whispered, and John’s eyes shuttered with a blink, a swallow bobbing down his throat as he ducked his head, pulling the blanket to his chin and curling his knees up in front of him.

“Nothing,” he muttered, gaze now fixed on the empty stretch of leather between them. “I-I don’t remember.”

“John-”

“Play me something.” He glanced up, a sheepish smile twitching at his lips as his mind caught up to his mouth’s drunken boldness. “It’s always easier to fall asleep when you’re playing. Not that it’s boring!” He sat up, shaking his head, eyes wide with innocent terror. “It’s just...nice knowing you’re here. Nice... _having_ you here.”

Sherlock’s mouth was dry, a tingling anxiety starting in his fingertips and riding up the nerves to his heart, his breath shaking with the rattling of his ribs. It was a terror he had never known, a terror _of_ the unknown, the feeling of being so near the brink of something, one wrong breath could send you plummeting, and he found his voice frozen in his throat, unable to answer the fragile words John had laid between them, to ease the fearful hurt growing in his eyes at Sherlock’s silence. So, he stood, leaping up with a nod, nervous energy driving him across the room so quickly, he thought he might have blurred, stopping to take a deep breath before lifting his violin case from the floor, fingers barely trembling as he placed it on his chair and snapped open the latches.

The sofa squeaked behind him, a rustle of fabric following, and Sherlock glanced at the mirror over the fireplace to find John had lied down, his body curled under the blanket while his head finally managed to find a throw pillow.

“Any requests?” he croaked, jokes solid enough ground to walk on, removing his bow and turning to see John shake his head.

“I don’t know what any of them are called,” he said, voice muddled with sleep, and Sherlock smiled, lifting his violin to his chin.

A few moments of tuning later, he lifted his chest, spine straight and arms up, ready to begin, but found his mind void of preference, eyes roving their way to John, as they were always wont to when not directly occupied.

He was awake—the rhythm of his breathing made that obvious—but only just, eyes closed and lids fluttering, but, as Sherlock watched, his lashes cracked open to reveal a sliver of a gaze, a gentle smile curling the corner of his mouth that remained visible above the blanket, and Sherlock heard the music playing before realizing his hand was the source, holding the glowing ember he wouldn’t dare name tight in his chest as he released its song into the night.

*****************************

Sherlock lingered in his room as long as he could, even going so far as to reorganize his sock index—by fabric, this time—before giving in to the boredom and gnawing in his stomach.

John was still asleep on the sofa, but light was creeping ever-closer to his resting place, and Sherlock knew it wouldn’t be long now, resolving to make the process as painless as possible.

Naturally, this started with coffee, Sherlock pulling out the French press for the occasion, adding an extra scoop for good measure. A can of beans and two slices of white bread were the next order of business, the beans going into a bowl in the microwave while the bread waited for the appropriate moment to be toasted, lukewarm toast a contender for everyone’s worst nightmare. He caught the microwave before it beeped, giving the beans a stir before popping them back in, but a groan sounded from the living room in spite of his best efforts, footsteps shuffling toward him as he pressed the toast down with a smile.

“Tell me the truth,” John grumbled, one hand pressed to his pinched face as he leaned against the doorframe, “how many lorries ran over me last night?”

Sherlock chuckled, kicking a chair leg in invitation, and then went to fetch a cup from the cupboard, John waddling in behind him. “Just one,” he said, pouring the potent black brew into John’s blue Dalek mug. “Shouldn’t be too hard to track down, though. Had a big ‘Johnnie Walker’ on the side.”

“Funny,” John muttered, grimacing up in grumpy gratitude as he took the offered drink. “They should give you a game show.”

Sherlock smiled, pausing halfway through pouring his own cup to pull the beans out of the microwave, the toast popping a moment later. He arranged the lot on a plate, leaving the leftover beans on the counter, and slid it in front of John, gliding a fork after.

“Bless you, child,” the man sighed, sticking individual beans with the prongs of his fork, but eventually moved up to the toast, scooping beans and tomato sauce onto the dry surface.

After half the toast and a full cup of coffee, John was starting to look a little less like a corpse, and got up to get his own second cup, though not without a grimace, free fingers massaging his forehead. “God, what _happened_ last night?” he groaned, and Sherlock stiffened in his chair, fingers tightening around his mug.

“You don’t remember?” he said, hoping to hide most of his tension with a sip, and John shrugged, placing the French press back on the counter and returning to his seat.

“I remember most of it. Least, I think I do.” He chuckled, taking a slurp of the fresh brew. “I remember leaving the restaurant. Then...then you got us a cab,” he said, raising a brow in a question Sherlock confirmed with a nod, “and I remember being back here, talking to you, and then...” He frowned, cradling the cup in his hands as it hovered at his bottom lip. “I think there was...music?” he murmured, and then shook his head, swallowing another mouthful of coffee. “Honestly, it’s all pretty fuzzy. I didn’t do anything I should expect the be blackmailed for if I run for office, did I?”

Sherlock forced a smiled, clearing his throat around the lump lodged there. “No,” he said, blinking down at the rippling black surface of his drink, “though there might be one less cabbie willing to pick you up.”

“Oh, god, I didn’t puke in the cab, did I?” John asked, eyes wide with terror, cheeks already darkening with shame before Sherlock shook his head.

“No, you were just...very interested in his bald head.”

“Oh my god.” John folded his arms on the table, dropping his head over them, but got up when his mobile beeped a few moments later, walking back into the living room to retrieve it off the coffee table. “Melissa,” he mused, pausing in the doorway, and Sherlock hoped Mrs. Hudson wasn’t too alarmed by his stomach crashing through her ceiling. “Melissa… Oh, _fuck_ , the waitress!” He lifted a hand to his shirt, looking frantically around, as if expecting her to come swinging in the window and catch him looking slovenly. “I told her we could grab coffee this afternoon!”

“It’s still early,” Sherlock assured, throat straining with forced nonchalance. “You could meet her somewhere close.”

John snarled in self-exasperation, and then disappeared, Sherlock letting his facade fall as footsteps thundered to the bathroom.

He took another sip of his coffee, but the floral notes were lost in the bitterness overtaking his tongue, and he tipped the remainder of the cup into the sink, giving it an adequate rinse and slotting it into the drying rack before crossing through to the living room. He paused in front of his chair, staring at the violin still perched on the seat, his fingers gliding soundlessly over the strings.

“Have you seen my-”

“Mrs. Hudson took it to the dry cleaner on Thursday,” he interjected, knowing John would be looking for his slate grey jumper, a cold-weather date favorite women often—and Sherlock never—said brought out his eyes.

“Damn,” John muttered, footsteps climbing up to the bedroom, where he would retrieve his emerald green jumper—the standard backup plan—and worn brown oxfords, which he would complain had been too cold when he got back, a lesson he never seemed to learn.

The script was consistent, the blocking perfected, the players passing in and out on cue, and Sherlock’s only part was to remain silent, a body lent to the chorus to hover in the background of John’s love life.

“Okay!” John puffed, still adjusting the cuffs of his green jumper as he leapt the last three stairs. “Be honest, how hungover do I look?”

Sherlock smiled, stomach swirling with bile. “You look fine,” he said, fingers curling in a suppressed flinch as John grinned, his eyes still soft with sleep.

“It’ll have to do. Wish me luck!” He flicked a hand in farewell, swiping his keys off the table and bolting down the stairs, the front door slamming a zip of a coat later.

“Good luck,” Sherlock breathed, and then returned his violin to its case, stowing it back in the dusty corner where it belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck if I know if Barts and QMUL actually do have a friendly match, but I do know they have two separate teams in BUCS, so, if they don't, they should.
> 
> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at prettysherlocksoldier and on Twitter @consultingdr221


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR havesomesadness

“Ta-da!” Irene brandished a hand over the garment bag, wide grin shifting between the glittering gold buttons and Sherlock’s face.

“No,” he said flatly, and the woman rolled her eyes, unzipping the bag and pulling out a royal blue sleeve.

“It was this or one of the soldiers, and red really isn’t your color.” She held the blazer up beside his cheek, nodding at her own genius, and then unwrapped the entirety of the outfit, sliding the trousers off the hanger and tossing them at his chest. “Go try it on,” she commanded, draping the blazer over his arm. “I figured you could wear one of your white shirts underneath, and then whatever black shoes you have.”

“Want to pick out my pants too?” Sherlock grumbled, and Irene smirked, quirking a brow as she scanned him up and down.

“Why, you planning on somebody seeing ‘em?” She winked, chuckling at Sherlock’s grimace, and then grabbed him by the shoulder, pushing and prodding him down the corridor toward his room. “Hurry it up,” she snipped. “I still have to get Molly and Greg their outfits.”

“What are you forcing them into?” Sherlock asked through the door as he stepped out of his jeans, knowing when resistance was futile.

“The Sugar Plum Fairy and the Cavalier. Respectively.”

“So you’re the Mouse King?”

“Ha ha,” Irene deadpanned, the door rattling as she leaned against it. “Mike’s the Mouse King. I’m Clara. Which makes you my prince charming, so you’d better comb your hair.”

“Just so long as there’s no true love’s kiss.”

“Only in your dreams, Holmes,” the woman quipped, and Sherlock laughed in spite of himself, tucking his white shirt into the trousers and pulling the blazer from the hanger.

“What does that leave for John?” he asked, fingers hovering over the buttons a moment before fastening them, Irene bound to do it for him otherwise. “Dancing snowflake? Giant candy cane?”

“If I’d thought of it, but, unfortunately, he’s just going to be a soldier.  _ He  _ can pull off red.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, walking to the closet instead of rising to the bait, and, after a moment, Irene continued.

“Figured you two would be glued at the hip the whole night anyway, might as well make you a pair.”

He stalled in sliding on his second shoe, taking a steadying breath to be sure his voice wouldn’t betray him. “I thought you and I were the pair.”

“Yes, but I plan on abandoning you the second after the pictures are taken.”

“Promises, promises,” Sherlock sighed, swinging the door open, and the woman stepped back, eyes widening as they scrolled over his body. “What?” he muttered, shifting his weight between his feet, suddenly self-conscious, but the woman grabbed him by the arm, dragging him back out to the living room.

“Come on, I wanna see it in the light,” she said, grip an uncompromising vice, leaving Sherlock no choice but to comply, paraded out in front of the window like a show dog. “It fits  _ perfectly _ !” she squealed, buzzing around him, tugging here and there at the fabric. “I was a little worried about this waist of yours”—she dug her hands into his sides, startling a yelp from him as he swatted her off—“but it turned out alright. You even have an ass!”

“Ow!” Sherlock yipped, jumping away from the spanking, glaring at the woman as she cackled, but he didn’t get time to retort, the front door swinging shut below them cutting off any thought but panic.

“John?” Irene called, eyes gleaming, and Sherlock tried to make a break for it a second too late, the woman’s arms latching onto one of his and holding him fast.

“Irene?” Footsteps started up the stairs, Sherlock’s heart hammering as he writhed in Irene’s grip, but it was no use, the woman’s heels seeming to literally dig in, rooting them to the spot. “What are you-” John stepped through the doorway, a rapid series of emotions playing out across his face as he surveyed the scene. The first reaction was surprise, then an odd combination of hurt and anger as he looked at their entwined arms, but his face settled into a wide-eyed gape when his eyes focused on Sherlock, blinking while they traced him, as if trying to clear a mirage. “What?” he croaked, rattling his head, a swallowing rolling down his throat as he yanked his eyes to Irene’s face, gluing his gaze on her with focused intensity.

A brow lifted over the woman’s sharp eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh,” John murmured, jaw tight, a flush creeping up his neck as his fingers twitched in and out of a fist at his side, “well...are you going to...explain?” He waved a hand over Sherlock, but didn’t look at him, his eyes landing somewhere on his chest rather than his face when he glanced across.

“It’s his outfit for the Christmas party,” Irene explained, flicking one of the polished buttons for emphasis. “He’s the Nutcracker Prince. Almost pulls it off, too.” She draped a forearm over Sherlock’s shoulder, tossing him a wink as she leaned against him, and Sherlock tilted his body, the woman stumbling to regain her balance.

“Oh, right,” John said, frowning down at the carpet, looking considerably more disquieted than Sherlock thought his attire warranted, “the party.”

“Don’t think you’re getting out of it,” Irene snapped, pointing a manicured finger at him. “I put your  _ ensemble _ on your bed.”

Wherever John had gone in his mind, that dragged him back, his head snapping up as his eyes widened with trepidation. “My what?”

“It’s French,” Irene quipped, beaming back at John’s withering stare. “You’re a soldier,” she said, and John’s shoulders relaxed even as his eyes remained suspicious. “It’s basically this but red.” She pointed a thumb at Sherlock’s chest, but John didn’t look, gaze remaining fixed on Irene as he nodded.

“Right, well, I’ll just...go have a look, then,” he muttered, bobbing his head toward the stairs even as his feet were already taking him there, his shoes and Sherlock’s coat still on as he mounted the steps two at a time, Sherlock and Irene watching the ceiling as his door slammed above them.

“Hmm,” Irene hummed, a corner of her mouth quirked up with a secret she didn’t seem inclined to share, turning away to grab her purse off the table. “Let me know if his costume fits alright,” she said, nodding up the stairs as she walked toward them, Sherlock following her to the landing. “I’ve got a few soldier outfits, so we could mix and match, if we needed to.”

“Okay,” Sherlock replied, frowning as the woman began to descend the stairs, slipping her bag over her shoulder. “You’re not going to stay?” he asked, having expected the woman to make a spectacle of humiliating John as well, but Irene shook her head, something both fond and pitying in the smile she turned up to him.

“No, I’ve got to get over to Molly’s. I’ll see you guys Saturday.” She lifted a hand, turning her back on him as she concluded her descent, stepping out of view a moment to put on her coat before returning at the base of the stairs. “And don’t forget to comb your hair!” she clipped, stabbing a finger up at him, back to normal before Sherlock could pin down what had been off, and then she was gone in a rush of cold air, a few snowflakes whistling into the foyer around her, fluttering on the breeze a moment before vanishing into the hardwood.

Sherlock hovered on the landing for a time, frowning at the door as he tried to puzzle it out, but eventually shook his head, understanding Irene Adler not something about to be accomplished in an afternoon. Returning to his room, he stripped off the costume, hanging it up in his closet and changing back into the dark jeans and soft grey jumper he’d been wearing before Irene had whipped him up into her twister, and then headed upstairs, knocking gently on John’s door.

“John?” he asked when only silence greeted him. “Does the costume fit alright? Irene was asking.”

“I don’t know.” The door swung open, John now bereft of his coat and shoes, but otherwise in normal attire, not a gold fastening in sight. “I haven’t tried it on yet.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, stepping aside as John swept past him, leaving a palpable chill in his wake. “Do you not want to be the soldier?”

“No.”

Sherlock stopped at the top of the stairs, frowning as John got ahead to the landing. “No, you don’t want to be the soldier?”

“No, I don’t care about being the soldier.” John didn’t look back as he reached the base of the steps, disappearing into the kitchen, a cupboard door banging open as Sherlock followed after him.

“Then what-”

“Tea?” John’s back was stiff as it faced him in the doorway, one hand perched on the faucet while water poured into the kettle held beneath.

“Er, sure,” Sherlock murmured, John nodding down at the counter as he slammed the tap off, clanging the kettle down atop a burner and sparking it to life with a violent twist of the dial. Sherlock shuffled a step to the right, putting the kitchen table between himself and where John was now throwing tea bags into their cups like darts. “How-How did your exam go?”

“Fine,” John clipped, twisting away on a heel and striding past to the living room without a glance, Sherlock blinking after him, perplexed.

“Okay,” he said, tentatively following, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen as John sat on the sofa, jaw set and eyes fixed on the television as he scrolled through the channels. “Is it a rugby thing?” he asked, but John shook his head, gaze never leaving the screen, though he didn’t appear to be watching, his eyes unfocused and unmoving.

“Nope,” he snapped, popping the consonant, and Sherlock stepped forward, irritation nibbling at the edges of his concern.

“The waitress?” he supposed, the woman’s name escaping him. “She can’t come to the party anymore?”

“I never invited her.” He finally looked up, eyes hard and lips tight as he met Sherlock’s gaze. “Didn’t think I’d need a  _ date _ .”

Sherlock tilted his head, brow furrowing, John’s tone striking the first sparks of anger to life, though Sherlock did not yet have any idea what the problem was. “What are you talking about?” he pressed, and John rattled his head, trying to look back to the television, but Sherlock stepped in the way, the blond redirecting his eyes to the coffee table between them. “Didn’t think you’d need a date, what does that even mean?”

“Nothing,” John snipped, and Sherlock’s shoulders slumped as he gave the top of John’s head the most exasperated look he could manage.

“Seriously? You’re gonna do that?  _ Seriously _ ?”

“What?” John turned his face up, expression furious while his eyes held disappointment. “What am I doing?”

“Acting like a child!”

“There are worse things.”

“What is  _ that  _ supposed to mean!?”

“You!” John jabbed the remote at him, fire blazing in his eyes, and Sherlock shifted a half-step back, caught off guard at the change. “Letting Irene dress you up like a bloody Ken doll.”

Sherlock blinked, mouth hanging open as he collected enough righteous indignation to respond. “It’s a fancy dress party!” he spluttered, hand waving out toward his room, where the costume in question now hung. “And she brought you one too.”

“Yes,” John hissed slamming the remote down on the coffee table, giving up on the telly for the moment, “but  _ I’m _ not going to be paraded around like a prize poodle!”

“What are you-” Sherlock started, shaking his head, but John cut him off with a huff.

“I can’t believe you agreed to this.”

“Agreed to  _ what _ !?”

“Oh, please, Sherlock,” John scoffed, Sherlock’s hands balling to fists at the man’s disparaging tone. “It’s obvious. And a little heavy handed, don’t you think? Showing up as Prince Charming to pick through Irene’s  _ buffet _ of men?”

Sherlock’s jaw hit the floor, the whole world seeming to halt on its axis as he processed John’s words. “ _ What _ !?”

“I mean, you wanna get back out there, fine,” John muttered, rising from the sofa as the kettle began to whistle. “I just didn’t think picking up strangers at parties was the way you wanted to do it.”

“Why not? It always works for you.”

John’s mouth opened, ready to give voice to the affront creased into his face, but Sherlock didn’t give him the chance.

“First off, I have no intention of being ‘paraded around’, and, second, it wouldn’t be any of your business if I did!”

“Of course it’s my business!”

“How!?” Sherlock raged, hands flung out at his sides, voice rising as the kettle shrieked louder and louder in the background. “If I join a monastery or sleep my way through London, what the  _ hell  _ does it matter to you!?”

“Because you’re my friend!”

“So you get to tell me what to do?”

“I don’t want you getting hurt!”

“I think I can manage my own love life, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, because that’s worked out  _ so  _ well!”

Sherlock’s body shifted back on his heels, the words a palpable knife to his chest, the kettle going mute in his ears as his own breathing echoed back at him. His heartbeat stuttered, lungs sucking in a pained gasp of oxygen to make up the deficit, and, as John’s eyes widened with dawning horror, Sherlock’s dropped, following his feet as they rushed past him toward the door.

“Sherlock-”

“I’m going out.”

“Sherlock, please- Fuck!” he hissed, darting into the kitchen, the kettle falling silent after a worrisome series of bangs. “Sherlock, wait!”

“No!” He slammed the door behind him, a dramatic gesture more than a functional one, John opening it and thundering down the steps after him a moment later.

“Sherlock, I didn’t mean it! You know I didn’t mean it, I was just- I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter, I still never- Will you  _ stop _ !”

“Let  _ go _ !” Sherlock yanked his coat out of the man’s grip, hating how ragged his voice sounded, his fingers shaking as he fastened half the buttons on his coat before giving it up as good enough.

“Sherlock, wait!” John pleaded, grappling at his sleeve with frantic fingers. “Listen to me!”

“NO!” He wrenched his arm out of John’s grip, throat burning with the strain of suppressed emotion, and  turned his face to the door, hoping the excessive blinking would go unnoticed. “I don’t  _ want _ to wait, I don’t  _ want  _ to listen, and I don’t  _ want _ you telling me what to DO!”

“Sherlock, please, I-I’m  _ sorry _ , I-”

“Don’t wait up,” he muttered, yanking the front door open only to slam it at his back, the exit equal parts petty and exhilarating, but, as with all good storm-outs—something he was becoming far too familiar with—it didn’t take long for the adrenaline to subside, a heavy sigh hissing from his lips as reality clocked him over the head.

He had his finger over John’s speeddial key before remembering that’s who he was mad at, and moved farther down the keyboard, compressing number 5 instead.

“Miss me already?”

“Are you back at your place?” Sherlock asked, feet already heading toward the underground when he heard the silence behind Irene’s voice.

“Yeah, just got in,” she replied, keys clinking down into the ceramic bowl Sherlock knew rested on the table inside her front door. “Why?”

“Can I...stop by?”

Irene was quiet a long moment, Sherlock holding his breath, not wanting to risk even his carbon dioxide giving him away, but, as Irene sighed, it was clear the effort had been in vain. “I’ll pull the sofa out,” she said, Sherlock too tired to pretend to argue. “And pick up wine on your way in.”

“What kind?” Sherlock asked, hovering at the top of the underground steps so as not to lose the signal.

“Whatever you think it’ll take,” Irene answered, the line going dead a moment later, and Sherlock returned the mobile to his pocket, descending into the tunnel as he pondered over one bottle or two.

Irene’s approach to comforting was very different than John’s, focusing more on drinking and avoiding the topic than actively being supportive, but Sherlock found that to be just what he needed, the two of them one bottle and a terrible Christmas rom-com into the evening before the conversation found its way to the elephant in the room.

“So,” Irene said, propping her upper body up on an elbow as she turned to face him on the sofa bed, “what did he do?”

“Who?” Sherlock replied, taking another sip of his wine, but Irene only stared at him, denial obviously pointless. “How do you know I didn’t do something?”

“Because then John would be here.”

“Does John often sleep over on your sofa?”

“Don’t worry, it stays strictly over-the-clothes.”

Sherlock laughed, but the pleasant hum of alcohol could not drown out the lingering ache in his chest, and his amusement quickly died, eyes fixed on the swirling straw-yellow liquid as he twisted the neck of the glass. “We had a fight,” he said, knowing that much was obvious, but Irene didn’t point it out, waiting in silence for him to continue. “He-He thought I was- He thought the costume was-” Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, not drunk enough to gush, but too drunk to be delicate. “You know how you said you were going to bring all those guys to the party this weekend?”

“Before you told me not to.”

“You’re gonna do it anyway, but that’s not the point,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head, Irene’s smiling neither confirming nor denying. “John thought I was...getting dressed up for a man buffet or something.”

“A  _ what _ !?”

“I don’t remember exactly,” Sherlock said, swatting a hand through the air, “but he was in a strop over it. Thought I was walking into another Victor.”

“He said that?”

“Not in so many words.” Sherlock took another drink, and then stared at the telly, watching Irene sit up cross-legged on the uncomfortable spring mattress beside him. “I just-” he started, pausing to sigh, ducking his head and pinching at the bridge of his nose. “It’s none of his business,” he muttered, too intoxicated to conceal the misery in his tone. “And he’s one to talk! Going out with a different girl every week, and do  _ I  _ ever say anything?”

“I’m assuming that’s rhetorical.”

“No! No, I don’t!” Sherlock could hear himself slurring, never much of a drinker, and his arm wobbled as he tried to point a firm finger at Irene’s face. “I don’t say  _ anything _ ! Because it’s none of my business, and-and I don’t care. I don’t care...” He let his arm drop to the mattress, blinking down at the faded green quilt, the pattern rippling as hot shame built in his eyes.

Irene didn’t say anything, didn’t even appear to be breathing, but he could feel her watching him intently, and lifted his glass, downing the remaining liquid courage in a single gulp.

“I love him.”

It was not a grand reveal. No weight lifted from his chest, no glow of dawning comprehension suddenly made everything seem clear. There would be no breathless run through an airport or rain-drenched confession, just worthless words hovering in the night, spoken only to be said, to be acknowledged by the universe, a shot in the dark that would never find its target.

“I know,” Irene breathed, a feather-stroke of fingertips brushing his shoulder before she leaned forward, twisting the top off the second bottle of wine. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruh-roh...

“A little to the left.”

“If you say that one more time, it’s going a little around your neck.”

Irene let out a low whistle, brows raising as she looked up to his perch. “Touchy. Wake up on the wrong side of the sofa this morning?”

“There’s no  _ right _ side,” Sherlock grumbled, sticking the loose end of the string of dangling snowflakes where it was, Irene’s nitpicking be damned. “It’s either stabbed by springs or falling into a pit.”

“I told you you could bunk with me.”

“You snore.”

“The fuck I do!” Irene stepped forward, Sherlock considering leaping from the ladder before she could knock it out from under him, but her march was cut short as her phone began ringing in her pocket—some tinny song Sherlock was sure was very popular—and she wriggled it free from the tight black jeans, glancing at the screen with a sigh. “It’s him again,” she said, and Sherlock turned his face back to the wall, making unnecessary adjustments to the tape securing the streamers. “He’s been calling Molly too.”

The ladder vibrated, Sherlock glancing down to find Irene leaning against one of the bright yellow sides, arms crossed and single brow raised.

“You can’t ignore him forever.”

“I don’t plan to,” Sherlock clipped, running out of things to fidget with and left with no choice but to descend. “We’re both going to be at the party tonight.”

“Let me rephrase,” Irene said, following him as he crossed the bustling landscape, people and glitter covering every inch of the massive banquet room Irene had reserved for the night’s festivities. “You can’t avoid  _ talking  _ to him forever.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” He reached into the box of decorations, pulling out two boxes of ornaments—multicolored spheres with glittering white snowflakes printed on the surface. “Which tree do you want these on?” he asked, Irene giving him a hard look that promised the conversation was far from over, but decorating needs must, and she pointed to the faux firs flanking the main doors.

“Spread them out between those,” she ordered, and Sherlock nodded, making his escape as quick as the maze of table assembly around him would allow.

Reaching the trees, he placed the boxes of ornament on the ground, opening the top one and starting to bedeck the tree, moving as slow as he dared without earning Irene’s wrath, eager to postpone answering the woman’s prying questions for as long as possible. He was two ornaments in when his mobile buzzed in his pocket, his heart already sinking as he slipped it free, and, sure enough, John’s name appeared at the top, another of the countless text messages scrolling across the top.

**_Were you here while I was in class yesterday??_ **

Sherlock swallowed, stowing his phone away, the message nipping at the growing pit of guilt in his stomach more than he could afford to deal with in public.

He  _ had  _ been back to 221B the day before, needing to retrieve his costume and a change of clothes before returning to Irene’s for another night, and had timed it for when he knew John would be in class, a maneuver he was sure appeared vindictive—mostly because Mrs. Hudson had seen fit to tell him as much—but his motivation had been much more inclined to self-preservation than spite.

John had called him over a dozen times, giving up on voicemails eventually, but the ones he had left were littered with apologies, self-deprecation, and pleas for Sherlock to call him back, citing something important he needed to say outside of SMS. It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t believe him, John’s sincerity obvious from the moment the words had left his mouth, and Sherlock had forgiven him by, at most, the third voicemail, but he still held off returning any form of communication, terrified by the cryptic promise of ‘an important conversation’.

Would John ask him to move out? Had he figured out Sherlock was gone on him? Did Mrs. Hudson rat him out and tell John what really happened to his hideous Christmas jumper?

Sherlock was sure there were positive things John could want to talk about too, but he couldn’t think of any, and instead let his mind spin in on itself, the hypotheses growing more absurd with every loop around the downward spiral. Whatever topic John wanted to discuss, there was no more room to run from it, the LGBT Society Christmas party a mere six hours away, and John was bound to corner him eventually, though he had asked Irene if she could turn it into a masquerade ball last minute.

‘You’d be wearing a giant Nutcracker head,’ she’d scoffed, tossing him a granola bar as they’d headed out to start decorating earlier that morning. ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than  _ that _ .’

Sherlock hadn’t been so sure of that, and, as time wore on, was growing even less certain, suffocating in a plastic shell seeming more and more appealing as his anxiety whispered fresh horrors to his mind, so he’d taken to distracting himself, pitching in instead of sitting on the sidelines and sneering as the society members decked the halls.

“Trying to see your future?”

Sherlock startled, twisting his head to find an unfamiliar woman with curly blond hair smiling up at him, nodding at the ornament in his hand.

“I think the crystal ones work better,” she continued, holding her hand out, and Sherlock placed the ornament in her palm, too surprised by her appearance to argue, “but maybe not for your  _ Christmas _ future.”

Sherlock watched her hook the ornament on the tree, his tongue jolting back to life as she tugged to test the security. “I think there’s a ghost for that,” he muttered, and the girl laughed, stretching her arm out toward him.

“I’m Mary. Mary Morstan.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He took her hand in his, bobbing it once in the air before dropping his arm back to his side. “I’m a friend of Irene’s. Well, I say ‘friend’...”

Mary laughed, an easy sound that somewhat dampened his panic. “Yeah, she has that effect on people.”

“What about my effect on people?” Irene approached from behind Mary’s shoulder, a box of glittering plastic snowflakes in hand.

Sherlock folded his arms. “How do you know we were talking about you?”

“You said ‘she’.”

“There are a lot of ‘she’s in here.”

“But no other ones you  _ know _ .”

“I know Mary,” he said, waving a hand at the woman, who grinned at the mention, but Irene only quirked a brow.

“I don’t think Mary makes a habit of talking about herself in the third person.”

“Mary might,” the woman responded, blinking innocently at Irene’s glare, and the brunette dropped the topic with a roll of her eyes, thrusting the box of snowflakes into Sherlock’s hands.

“Put those on these trees too,” she commanded, pointing between the two firs. “They’re looking a little bare.”

“I’m only half done with this one,” Sherlock defended, nodding his head at the tree behind him, but Irene flicked a hand, dismissing the point.

“And I can tell it’s going to be bare. Mary,”—she turned, the blonde raising her brows expectantly—“you think you can help him out? I don’t want it looking like all the ornaments are exactly six inches apart.”

Mary nodded, chuckling as Sherlock and Irene exchanged sneers. “Sure, I was done in the kitchen anyway.”

“Oh, did we get-”

“Enough liquor to level an army of elephants? Yes,” Mary interjected, shaking her head as Irene winked, clicking her tongue in time with the point of a finger gun.

“Knew I could count on you! Now, enough chitchat!” She clapped her hands, shooing them back toward the trees. “This place has to look like Santa’s wet dream in five hours!”

“Eugh, why would you-!”

“Chop-chop!” Irene interjected, striding away across the room, and Sherlock shook his head after her, Mary giggling at his side.

“Yeah,” she murmured, taking the box of snowflakes from Sherlock and placing them at her feet, “she  _ definitely  _ has that effect on people.”

Sherlock smiled, bending down to pick another round ornament out of the box, leaning back and squinting at the tree before reaching for a particular branch.

“Um,” Mary murmured, gently brushing his wrist with her hand, a corner of her mouth quirking in apology as she guided him a little to the right. “Six inches,” she explained, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’m not putting them six inches apart,” he huffed, though he did hook the ornament on the suggested branch. “This is obviously nine.”

Mary laughed, snapping open the tape on the box of snowflakes and stringing a few onto her fingers. “Obviously,” she said, straightening up and beginning to hang the sparkling decorations between his larger baubles. “So, are you new to the society? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“No, I’m...just a friend of Irene’s.”

“Oh, from class?”

“No,” Sherlock murmured, Mary frowning up at him curiously. “I- I go to Imperial,” he said, and Mary blinked, tilting her head in mounting perplexment. “I met Irene through a mutual friend, Molly Hooper?”

“Oh, Molly!” Mary beamed, Sherlock instantly fonder of her for the reaction. “Yeah, I’ve met her a few times. But...she goes to Barts...”

“Yes.” He smiled, shrugging a shoulder at Mary’s befuddled expression. “I’ve been told I may as well transfer at this point.”

Mary laughed, shaking her head and returning to their task. “Well, what are you going through for at Imperial, then?”

“Chemistry,” Sherlock answered, hanging an ornament eleven inches away from the one Mary had directed. “You?”

“Medicine,” she replied, chuckling as Sherlock’s hands froze for a moment on the branch. “Yeah, everyone’s surprised at first. Guess I have that art teacher vibe.”

“No, I-” Sherlock started, but faltered as Mary gave him a knowing look, opting to pick up another ornament instead. “I was going to guess English.”

“Mhmm,” Mary hummed, lifting a brow before stepping away to start on the right side of the tree. “I’m not very far along though; I only transferred to Barts this year.”

“Where were you be-”

“HEY!” Irene’s voice boomed out across the room, everyone pausing in their work to find the victim of her wrath, which, unfortunately, was the two of them. “Less talking, more glitterating!”

“That’s not even a-”

“Glitterating!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exchanging a commiserating glance with Mary before picking up another ornament he would later pretend not to notice had been moved while he was in the bathroom.

************

“Will you hurry up?” Sherlock pulled up the sleeve of his costume blazer, shaking his head at the time. “The party started fifteen minutes ago.”

“Will you shut up?” Irene’s taunt was muffled by the bathroom door, the LGBT Society members having commandeered the employee toilets of the banquet hall to get dressed for the party, but Sherlock knew Irene was the only one left, and pushed open the door to continue this conversation inside. “Ahh, a  _ boy _ !” Irene tittered as she caught sight of him in the mirror, and then rolled her eyes, returning to painting the cupid’s bow of her mouth as he glared at her reflection. “Relax,” she murmured, moving her lips as little as possible. “Everyone knows the first twenty minutes are just people getting punch and cubed cheese.”

“You have cubed cheese?”

“Of course not, what do I look like, a Tory?” She replaced the cap on her lipstick with a  _ snap _ , stretching the neck of her dress—a flowing off-white garment with accents of lace and deep-blue—to tuck it into the corset beneath.

“Don’t you have pockets?” Sherlock asked and the woman laughed, twirling pieces of her curled hair round a finger in the mirror.

“That’s adorable,” she chuckled, meeting the reflection of his eyes with a patronizing smile. “Lady clothes don’t have pockets. That way, we have to buy purses and further satiate the capitalist machine.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, not knowing quite what else there was to say. “Well, I could hold it for you,” he offered, and Irene frowned at him in the mirror, dropping her hands from her hair as she turned. “You? Would hold my lipstick?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“And my mobile?”

He nodded.

“And my portable charger?”

“Is there room for your actual body in there, or do you just not breathe for the evening?”

Irene lifted a brow.

“Yes, I will hold your mobile and lipstick and rocket launcher and whatever else you have in there,” he muttered, waving a hand toward her chest, and then frowned as Irene smiled, crossing her arms over her torso. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head as she removed the lipstick and charger, keeping the mobile for the time being. “I just didn’t realize how desperate you were to get down there.” She smirked up at his glare, slipping the items into the pocket of his jacket as she passed. “Come along, Jeeves!” she clipped, but Sherlock was too relieved to be baited, hastening to her side as they started down the corridor.

Just as Irene predicted—not that he’d ever give her satisfaction of saying as much—the party was just beginning to pick up, a handful of people on the dancefloor while the rest still mingled around the fringes at tables and chairs. At a glance, Sherlock didn’t see John, but he tried not to make his searching too obvious, not wanting to appear anxious in spite of how that word didn’t even begin to cover the frantic fluttering of butterflies in his stomach.

“Breathe,” Irene whispered, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze as they headed toward one of the tables, Sherlock recognizing some of the waving hands as belonging to society members he’d met earlier, and he tried to follow the advice even as his ribs resisted.

“We were wondering where you got off to,” a young man with bright pink spikes for hair said, grinning at Irene overtop a clear plastic cup filled with what must be the infamous punch. “I suppose that means this is the fashionably late zone.”

“For the next ten minutes,” Irene replied, smiling at the answering chuckles. “After that, it’s just rude. Unless they’ve given prior notice, of course.”

“Of course,” said a voice at their back, and Sherlock turned to find Mary walking toward them, her face almost as sparkling as the deep purple dress dancing just above her knees. “I’d almost given you up for dead. Or escaped,” she added, addressing Sherlock now.

Irene scoffed, shaking her head as she slipped an arm through Sherlock’s, latching tight to this side. “As if I would  _ ever _ let my Cinderella miss the ball.”

Sherlock looked down at her, voice flat to match his unamused expression. “How magnanimous of you.”

“I try,” Irene simpered, patting his chest before looking back to Mary. “You know, there’s some extra wings upstairs,” she said, nodding at Mary’s outfit, her face shifting to confusion when the blonde huffed in frustration.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” she blustered, looking helplessly around the group. “I’m a sugar plum! Just a sugar plum!”

The group laughed, Irene’s mouth opening with a reply when a voice behind them cut her off, her eyes widening as she abruptly released his arm.

“Sherlock!”

He left his eyes closed a few extra milliseconds on a blink, and then turned, scanning the crowd for the face the familiar voice belonged to.

John was fighting his way through the dance floor toward them, appropriately dressed in his soldier’s uniform: a red and white high-neck blazer with gold buttons and embroidery paired with black trousers. “I’ve been looking all over for you!” he said, breathless for no imaginable reason, eyes sweeping over the group behind him in brief acknowledgment before he leaned forward, dropping his voice. “I-I need to talk to you,” he muttered, hands twitching at his sides. “There’s something I ha-”

“John?”

John blinked, looking almost offended as he turned to the voice, but the irritation quickly melted away, replaced with happy surprise as his gaze landed on- “Mary?”

“Oh my god!” Mary leapt forward, wrapping her arms around John’s neck, the man’s eyes widening a moment in alarm before he responded, gently placing his hands on her back. “This is crazy!” she laughed, pulling away, but her hands lingered on his shoulders, and Sherlock shuffled to the side, forcing a swallow down a dry throat. “I didn’t know you went to Queen Mary! I guess my Facebook stalking skills needs some work.”

“Looks like,” John chuckled, glancing up at Sherlock, an embarrassed apology in his eyes. “So...how have you been?”

Sherlock turned his face, stepping farther away and into Irene, who placed a gentle hand on his arm, tugging lightly on his sleeve as she bobbed her head out at the room.

“Come on,” she whispered, entwining her arm with his and guiding him away, the lilting sounds of John and Mary catching up fading away into the babble of the room. “Let’s make the rounds.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder just in time to see John throw his head back with laughter, the sound playing out in Sherlock’s mind, and he twisted back before the bile climbing in his throat overflowed, finding Irene had led them to the refreshments table, cups already filled and displayed on the sparkling red tablecloth. He grabbed one, draining half of it in a single swallow, albeit not without a few coughs, the magenta-hued mixture at least half lighter fluid to his palate. “Yes,” he croaked, clearing his throat, “let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **FAIR WARNING:** This chapter contains a graphic-ish description of vomiting that I had a really hard time writing because I’m veeeeeeeery sensitive to that sort of thing, so, if you are as well, I can either tell you when to start/stop, or send you a version with that cut out, just email me at prettysherlocksoldier@gmail.com or message me on Tumblr (prettysherlocksoldier) if you have any questions/concerns.
> 
> In other news, this chapter is quite long, and the one after it will be long too, so there might not be a update tomorrow in order to give me time to get that next one up to snuff.
> 
> AND ANOTHER THING: I know we're all having some TST rage-angst right now, but ya'll need to just take a deep breath about my Mary, okay, she is lovely, she has done nothing wrong her whole life, I know this and I love her, okay????? thatcanononeneedshelptho

An hour and three cups of punch later, Sherlock was not only able to get through the introductions with Irene’s friends without rolling his eyes, but was actually finding some of them tolerable, a fact his lips were regrettably loose enough to let slip, Irene beaming with a triumph he was sure he’d never hear the end of.

“Oh, look, there’s Ethan. Ethan!” She lifted up onto her toes, flagging down a tall man with styled brown hair who was just leaving the snack table with a plate of assorted vegetables and something wrapped in filo that smelled delicious.

“Irene, hi!” Ethan touched her upper arm with his free palm, leaning in to kiss her cheek, and Sherlock took the moment to analyze the man—second year, law major, avid cycler, _very_ gay. “I was wondering where you’d fluttered off to. Although, I suppose you’re not the sugar plum fairy, are you?” he said, eyes scanning her dress.

“Nope!” Irene chirped, clenching the sides of her dress in her hands and spreading it wide. “I’m Clara”—she dipped a curtsy, dropping the dress as she straightened—“and this is my Nutcracker Prince, Sherlock.”

“Sherlock?” Ethan chuckled, gaze rolling up and down his body. “Well, that certainly _sounds_ like it’s from a fairytale.”

Sherlock laughed, Ethan’s smile pleasant enough to encourage. “Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. My mother just dug a little too deep in our genealogy.”

“Ah,” Ethan replied, tipping his head up in a nod. “Well, you could always come up with a better story.”

“I probably should, shouldn’t I?” Sherlock mused, and Ethan laughed, his good humor contagious to Sherlock’s liquor-loosened mind. “Something about ancient lords or ruthless pirates.”

“Pirates, definitely,” Ethan advised with a wink. “Much sexier.”

“Lipstick.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock blinked at Irene’s outstretched hand, his head tilting side to side, as if a new angle could somehow make sense of it.

“My lipstick,” she said again, but Sherlock remained perplexed, the woman huffing a sigh and grappling at his coat.

“Oh,” he murmured as she pulled the shiny silver canister from his pocket, brandishing it in front of his face for emphasis. “I forgot I had that.”

“You’ve got a lot on your mind.” Irene lifted her brows, Sherlock not so far gone as to not recognize a taunt when he heard one, but she turned her attention to Ethan before he could compose an appropriate response. “I’ll be right back, gentlemen,” she said, pointing between them. “Try not to watch me walk away.” She turned with a wink, ignoring Sherlock’s retching at her back, but Ethan laughed, seizing the momentary pause to swipe a carrot into his mouth.

“So,” Sherlock began, taking a sip of his punch to give Ethan time to swallow, “are you a member of the society?”

Ethan quirked a brow. “What are you suggesting, Mr…?”

“Holmes,” Sherlock supplied, “and nothing; I’m just curious. It seems like a lot of people for them all to be members.”

“It is one of the larger groups,” Ethan said, turning a glance around the room, “but I think they mostly use this party for recruiting. To answer your question though, no, I’m not a member. You?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head, taking another drink. “I’m just friends with Irene.”

“Pity.” He smiled, green eyes warm with sincerity. “I was thinking about signing up.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh, unfamiliar with the proper decorum for accepting compliments, but, even through the alcohol dancing in his brain, he felt a pinprick of guilt at the open honesty in eyes he couldn’t help but wish were blue.

Still, Ethan was attractive enough, and it was only a party, no joint custody of a dog under negotiation just yet. Surely there was no harm in meeting someone new, especially someone who�—miracle of miracles—was _interested_ in him, a simple thing he’d be lying if he said wasn’t lifting his leaden spirits, and, now more than ever, it was clear to Sherlock that that person would never, ever be-

“Sherlock?”

He couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that whistled through his nose as he turned, but John looked too far off yet to hear it, and he’d regained his composure by the time the blond reached his side. “John,” he acknowledged, dropping a stiff nod, starting to turn away to Ethan when John summoned his attention back.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, leaning around Sherlock’s shoulder to give Ethan a strained smile. “It’s- It’s kind of important.”

“I doubt waiting another hour will have any lasting impact,” he snipped, a flash of irritation fluttering across John’s face before he resigned himself to the gibe, “and, as you can see, I’m already talking to-”

“Ethan,” the man interjected, stretching a hand out, his smile uncomfortable but nevertheless polite. “Ethan Collins.”

“John Watson,” John answered, jaw stiff and grip firm. “I’m Sherlock’s-”

“Roommate,” Sherlock muttered, pointedly avoiding John’s sharp gaze. “He’s my roommate.”

“Oh,” Ethan said, trying to salvage the conversation in spite of the tension thrumming between two of its members, “well, that’s-”

“It’s only temporary, though.” Sherlock sipped at his punch, days of growing bitterness pouring out unfiltered. “At least, I think it is, but I can’t be trusted to make my own decisions, so, who knows?”

“Okay.” John placed a guiding hand on his arm, Sherlock hating himself as the banked fire in his chest jumped its borders at the touch. “How ‘bout we get you some water?”

“I don’t want water.”

“Coffee, then.”

“I don’t want coffee.”

“Sherlock, you’re drunk.”

“And here I thought this was Tango.”

“Alright, that’s- I’m sorry, Ian, was it?” John snipped, barely giving the flustered man time to open his mouth before continuing. “Sorry to cut the fun short, but I think Sherlock’s had quite enough of it for one evening. Enjoy the veg.” He nodded down at the man’s plate, and then spun Sherlock by the shoulder, catching him after a 180° and marching him toward the exit.

“But I never got snacks!” Sherlock whined, wriggling futilely in John’s grip, the blond huffing a sigh through his nose before yanking them back around, reaching out to a still-stunned Ethan and sniping the clear plastic plate from his grip.

“Cheers,” he muttered, passing it to Sherlock, who cheerfully popped one of the pastry bites in his mouth, crunching it down as John herded him from the room.

“Spanakopita,” he murmured through a mouthful of flaky dough and spinach. “Could use more feta.”

“I’ll alert the media.”

There was a sitting area just inside the front door, and John guided them toward it, pressing Sherlock down into a leather wingback chair.

“I’m gonna go grab us a cab. Stay. Here,” he ordered, and Sherlock tipped a two-finger salute, carrot held between the digits. John rolled his eyes, sigh heavy with frustration. “I’m gonna kill that woman,” he muttered, and then disappeared around the back of the chair, the metal bar on the door clanging a moment later.

The other pastry-wrapped appetizer was brie with some sort of jam, Sherlock clapping his tongue against the roof of his mouth in an attempt to identify it when John returned.

“Alright, let’s-”

“Try this.” Sherlock lifted the uneaten half of the pastry near John’s mouth, the man recoiling in alarm.

“What? No, come on, the cab’s waiting.”

“I can’t tell if it’s fig or mixed berry.”

“Probably fig, now let’s-”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, for chriss-” John leaned down, biting a chunk off the pastry in Sherlock’s hand while Sherlock stared at his mouth, transfixed. “Fig,” he murmured, hoisting Sherlock up as he swallowed, “now, come on, let’s get you home. Grab your plate.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “It’s all vegetables now.”

John chuckled, though it sounded less amused and more like a swan song of sanity. “Alright, we’ll get you some more grease on the way home.”

“Sausage roll?” Sherlock suggested, leaning into John’s side as the man wrapped an arm around his back.

“Sausage roll.”

“With chips?”

“With chips,” John confirmed, pulling open the door of the cab and lowering him inside, hand pressing into his hair to keep his head from hitting the doorframe. “Baker Street,” he called up to the cabbie, dropping down beside Sherlock. “221.”

The cabbie made a grunt of acknowledgment, and then they were off, Sherlock’s stomach reeling with the sudden lurch, but John’s arm came down around his shoulders, holding tight to steady the worst of the jostling.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth,” John whispered in his ear, breath hot and damp on his neck, and Sherlock’s stomach flipped from more than the alcohol, his jaw tight as he counted out his breaths.

1, 2, 3, 4… 1, 2, 3, 4…

He’d never been so relieved to be freezing as when they stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of Speedy’s, his lungs taking in great gulps of frigid air that didn’t smell like a leather air freshener, the fog in his brain beginning to clear with the influx of oxygen.

“I’m gonna let you in, and then run into Speedy’s, alright?” John explained, and Sherlock nodded, not trusting his mouth to open and let out only words at the moment. “Jesus,” John muttered, shaking his head as they climbed the steps to the door, “what was _in_ that? Mrs. Hudson!”

Sherlock winced at the shout, the beginning of the crash already prickling beneath his forehead, but it worked well enough, the woman appearing in her doorway with a _bang_.

“What is it? What’s happened?” she panted, rushing toward them, and Sherlock’s attempt to hide behind John was thwarted when the man stepped aside.

“Can you get him upstairs?” he asked, and Sherlock stared at the woman’s slippers, biting his lip and twisting his hands in shame. “I’ve gotta grab him some stuff from Speedy’s.”

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Hudson urged, wrapping a gentle arm around Sherlock’s back, the other hand swatting John back toward the door, which swept open and shut in a rush of cold air at his back. “Come along, dear,” she said, voice soft as she waddled them to the foot of the stairs. “Watch your step. Just take it one at a time.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Sherlock snapped, gripping tight to the handrail as another wave of nausea crashed over him.

“Course not, dear,” the woman said to his back, and Sherlock was too tired to argue, hobbling up the stairs and letting Mrs. Hudson guide him to the sofa. “There we go,” she soothed, draping the blanket over his body and tucking it around his feet. “I’ll get you some water.” She patted him twice on the shoulder before leaving for the kitchen, returning soon after with a tall glass of water that was suddenly the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen. “Easy, now,” she said, combing a hand through his hair as he gulped down the first swallow. “Small sips, dear, small sips.”

Sherlock complied, nearly halfway through the glass when the front door opened and shut, footsteps hard on the steps as they were taken two at a time.

“Okay,” John puffed, wrestling with the plastic bag as he approached the table. “One sausage roll and chips. If you’re up for it,” he added, lifting a brow as he looked down at Sherlock.

“Maybe just the chips to start,” he mumbled, John smiling as he nodded, removing the grease-stained packet of newspaper.

“Mrs. Hudson, could you grab me one of those magazines over there?” he asked, nodding to the table across the room where their unwanted mail collected, but the woman shook her head, rising and heading toward the kitchen.

“I’ll grab you a _plate_ ,” she muttered, her voice continuing in a stage whisper as she disappeared into the kitchen. “I knew I should’ve picked the lesbians.”

John lifted a hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh, biting his lip to temper the smile when the woman reentered the room, placing a large ceramic plate on the coffee table.

“Make sure he hydrates,” she scolded, finger pointing between them, and John nodded over his shoulder as he shook the chips onto the plate. She left after that, Sherlock nibbling on a chip in silence while John went into the kitchen to start the kettle.

“You want anything?” he called, Sherlock humming a negative he presumably understood, reappearing several minutes later with only one cup. He hovered at the edge of the coffee table, glancing back at his chair with indecision, but Sherlock slid down the sofa, tugging his chips over and readjusting his blanket. John nodded, lowering himself down onto the cushions, but kept tight to the armrest, chancing furtive glances at Sherlock as he sipped his tea.

“You might as well say it,” Sherlock muttered, John’s anxiety starting to tug at his own nerves. “I can’t exactly escape at the moment.”

John smiled, but it was stiff, the tension not releasing from his eyes. “No, it’s- It can wait til the morning.”

Sherlock stared at his chips, blinking them in and out of focus. “But-”

John’s phone buzzed, and he lifted his hips off the sofa, pulling it out of his back pocket. He swiped it unlocked, tapping at the screen, eyes moving back and forth as he read a message, and then typed out a quick reply before placing it facedown on the table.

“Mary?” Sherlock asked, eyes widening as he realized the assumption had traversed thought into speech, and John gave him a curious look, lowering the cup he’d been about to drink from.

“Mary?” he echoed, shaking his head. “No. It was Irene wondering where we’d gone. Why would Mary be texting me?”

Sherlock shrugged, nerves reigniting his nausea as his head began to spin. “I don’t know. You two seemed...friendly.”

“Well, we were friends,” John supplied, the past tense highlighted in Sherlock’s mind. “Went to the same secondary school for a bit before she moved, but lost touch after that. Actually, we- Well, we dated. Sort of,” he muttered, and Sherlock had to turn his face away, too out of sorts to school his expression. “In that way kids do, ya know?”

Sherlock hummed, more because the pause required a response than any actual understanding on his part, and then took another drink of water, casting his mind about for a change of subject. “What did you tell Irene?”

“That she seriously overestimated your alcohol tolerance,” John growled, expression dark when Sherlock glanced at him.

“It’s not her fault,” he said, well and truly drunk if he was defending Irene. “She was just trying to help.”

“By getting you sloshed?”

“She didn’t _get_ me-”

“And then dragging you around to meet all those _men_. That last one was practically drooling.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Sherlock shook his head, wincing as that only served to aggravate the growing pain behind his eyes. “He was just being nice.”

“Nice?” John scoffed, leaning forward to drop his tea onto the table. “He was eyeing you up like a piece of meat! Honestly, where is Irene even _finding_ these people, Creeps R’ Us?”

“He wasn’t a creep,” Sherlock urged, trying to regulate his breathing as his stomach rolled again, caught up in an emotion he couldn’t quite put a name to, a kind of angry desperation that nibbled at the corners of his eyes. “We were just talking.”

“Oh, he had a lot more than talking on his mind,” John muttered, nodding out at the room as if the furniture would pipe up and concur. “A guy like that, he’s only thinking about one thing, and, let me tell ya, it doesn’t include breakfast in the morning.”

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock’s voice was small, eyes brimming with hot tears he couldn’t be sure came from fury or frustration as he shook his head down at his lap. “Why are you- Is it really that ridiculous?” He lifted his face, suddenly so tired, tired in every sense of the word, and, liquid courage or not, he wasn’t letting this go on any longer. He couldn’t. “That someone might actually _like_ me?”

“What?” John said, shaking his head as he shuffled closer across the sofa. “No, of course not, I just-”

“What?” Anger banked the tears as he pulled away, pressing himself into the armrest and glaring at the blond’s shocked expression. “Get a kick out of poking holes in everything? Can’t fathom anyone wanting to talk to me without an ulterior motive?”

John swallowed, his jaw tight and eyes blazing with a suppressed something Sherlock might care about if his vision wasn’t red with punch and rage. “That’s not-”

“But it’s alright for you to do it,” he snapped, waving a hand out at the man without meeting his eyes. “You can collect first dates like stamps, but, when _I_ try to have one _bloody_ conversation with someone-” He broke off with a jagged breath, the swirl of emotions not doing his head or stomach any favors, and he placed his water glass on the table in front of him, bowing his head down toward his knees and counting his breaths.

“I-I’m sorry,” John murmured, rustling a few inches closer. “I’m sure Irene has his phone number or something, if you-”

“No, it’s not about him,” Sherlock interjected, pausing to take another deep breath.

“Then what-”

“You!” He put as much force as he was able into the syllable, trying to convey rage through only a corner of his eye, his head spinning too much to risk turning. “You’re always...there!”

“I’m...sorry?”

“You should be.”

“Well, I am.”

“No, you’re not, you don’t even know what you’re supposed to be sorry for,” Sherlock snapped, hardly making sense even to himself, and he pinched his eyes closed as his head hung between his knees, fingers kneading tight circles in his temples.

“I’m sorry I ruined your date,” John murmured, and Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes for the carpet’s benefit.

“It wasn’t a date, it was a distraction.”

“From what?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened down at the floor, his mind too slow to catch the admission, but he’d caught up now, heart pounding in his throat as he tried to herd his foggy thoughts together into a convincing lie. “I- The crowd.” He swallowed, bracing his hands on his knees and steeling himself to stand. “Too many people, it-it got overwhelming.”

“Sherlock-” John started, but cut off as Sherlock stood, knees wobbling a moment before he locked them.

“I-I’m tired,” he muttered, wincing as his head swam with vertigo. “I think I should-”

“Can I just-”

“John, I really-”

“But I think you-”

“Fine,” Sherlock snipped, flicking a hand at the man before redirecting his fingers to press his aching eyes. “Fine, just...make it quick.”

Silence.

Sherlock peeled one eye open, blinking John’s face into focus, the man biting his lip as his hands fidgeted over his knees.

“Well, it’s- It’s not exactly a... _quick_ sort of-”

“Oh, for fuck’s- I’m going to bed.” He started toward the corridor, watching John rise in his peripheral vision. “You can pick up being _insufferable_ in the morning.”

“Sherlock-”

“In the morning!”

“I was jealous.”

Sherlock blinked, his bedroom door blurring as his vision swam, breath coming in jagged hiccups of air. He couldn’t feel his legs, but presumed they were working, his body still vertical for the time being, and spoke down the corridor in front of him, afraid to move anything lest the precarious balance be tipped and send him tumbling. “Of?”

John blew out a long slow breath. “Of the guys Irene wanted you to meet. Of Ethan. Of... Of Victor.”

Sherlock’s head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, his hearing wobbling in and out as his mouth went dry. “Why?” he breathed, feeling his throat work around the word even as it fell on deaf ears, but he must have produced some sound, as John hissed a disbelieving laugh.

“I-I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“John,” Sherlock clipped, trying to force years of questions and longing and frustration into the four letters, because this time, this one time, he needed John to communicate in something more tangible than shrugs and muttered jokes. He didn’t want to deduce or presume or suppose, he wanted to _know_ , wanted to be told, wanted to be worth the effort of a few awkward moments, and, if John couldn’t manage that, well...

“I’m sorry, I-” He paused, a great gulp of air whistling out of his mouth as a floorboard creaked at Sherlock’s back. “I find it difficult. This- This sort of thing.”

“I know,” Sherlock assured, well aware that they were the top two contenders for England’s most emotionally stunted.

“I-I don’t- Can you just...not turn around? Please?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Okay… Okay.”

There was a rustle of clothing as another floorboard creaked, this time farther to Sherlock’s right, the vibration under his feet indicating John was pacing a short distance behind him, and Sherlock closed his eyes, trying not to track the movement in his mind, the rhythmic back-and-forth making him dizzy.

“I-I don’t know when it started. That’s a thing people are supposed to know, I guess, or so I’ve heard, I-I don’t know, I’m not- I don’t...do this. Ever, I mean, I’ve _never_ done this; I-I don’t even know _how_ to do it apart from what I’ve seen on the telly, and they tend to end up dead or sleeping with someone’s brother-”

“John.”

“Right, not the time for death, er… Hang on.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh, immediately regretting it as the jolt to his stomach shocked his nausea back to life, and he swallowed, trying not to think about the baked brie he was starting to be able to taste again.

“Okay, um, Sherlock.” John paused, clearing his throat, Sherlock frowning as he tried to listen and count through his breaths at the same time. “First of all, I want to say that I was completely out of line the other day with what I said. While I may give you a _reason_ for my behavior, I understand that there is no excuse, and do not intend anything I say to- tonight to diminish how wrong my act-”

“Are you reading that?” Sherlock murmured through the saliva building at an increased rate in his mouth, growing more acidic with every swallow.

“I-I didn’t want to- Yeah, you’re right, it’s stupid.” A shifting of cloth. A deep breath. “Look, what I’m trying to say is-”

“John,” he broke in, this time a warning, a hand lifting to his mouth as he tried to hold in a belch that tasted like chips.

“-I like you, Sherlock. I-I think I have for a while, I just- I didn’t know what to do about it, and-and then you were with Victor, and it just got easier to-”

“John!”

“-put it away, pretend it wasn’t happening. And then I was just...trying to find distractions—which was awful of me, I know—but then you were _living_ here, and it didn’t even matter how many times I went out or who with, because, no matter what or who or where, I knew you were here, and I wanted to be here with you, and, I’m not going to lie, I’m still _fucking_ terrified and don’t have a single _bloody_ clue what to do with all this, but I need to do _something_ , because it’s driving me absolutely- Sherlock?”

Sherlock clapped a hand to his mouth, bolting down the corridor as fast as his trembling knees would carry him, which was, thankfully, quick enough to reach the bathroom, where they gave out in front of the toilet, hitting hard on the tile as he planted both hands on the floor and flung his face over the bowl. His eyes watered as bright pink liquid jetted from his locked-open mouth, jaw aching as he gasped for air after the first assault, but the second wave was hot on its heels, bile creeping into his nose as his hands curled into fists on the cold porcelain. Panting, he tried to blink the water from his eyes enough to navigate a hand to the toilet roll hanging nearby, ripping off several squares to wipe the strings of spittle from his mouth, and then blew his nose, a disgusted shiver rattling through him at the few small chunks he could feel being expelled. Tossing the paper into the bowl, he swatted a hand at the flush, leaning back against the cool basin of the tub as his shame spiralled away into the pipes, his eyes closing as he let his head loll back to face the ceiling.

“I’m gonna try not to take that personally.”

His eyes snapped open, head twisting toward the door as the past few minutes came rushing back to him, but John’s smile stalled the reply he hadn’t yet thought of, a hand stretching out to pass him his abandoned glass of water.

“Here,” John said, lowering himself down to the tile in front of the sink as Sherlock took the cup. “Guess the chip’s weren’t the best idea after all.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head around a slurp, sloshing the water around in his mouth before leaning forward and spitting into the toilet, too tired to be embarrassed. “Don’t think it would’ve mattered,” he admitted, taking a proper drink before leaning back against the tub, adjusting to place the cool surface on the bare back of his neck. “I drank...so much,” he groaned, eyes closing with a wince as John laughed. “So much.”

“Don’t feel too bad,” he assured, wrapping his arms around his knees, fingers fidgeting with the ribbed elastic of his socks. “Irene’s punch isn’t called Cherry Bomb for nothing.”

“It has a _name_?” Sherlock moaned, rolling his head to glower at John when he laughed, but the inevitable awkwardness began creeping in around them, John falling silent as both of them dropped their eyes to the floor. “Don’t,” Sherlock muttered, glancing up at John through his lashes as the man’s head tilted in question. “Take it personally.”

John blinked, looking stunned in a way Sherlock might have found hilarious under less sickly circumstances, and then the most blindingly beautiful smile Sherlock had ever seen bloomed across his face, leaving him equal parts thrilled and terrified that he could make John Watson look so happy. “Okay,” he breathed, dipping a nod, and then unravelled his limbs, incoherent sounds of confusion bumbling from Sherlock’s mouth as he stood.

“Where- What- But-”

“Can you stand?” John asked, extending a hand down to him, Sherlock looking between the palm and his face with a growing frown.

“Yes,” he replied, “but shouldn’t we-”

John shook his head. “Tomorrow,” he said, smiling when Sherlock’s eyes narrow skeptically. “You’re gonna crash any minute, now that that’s out of- Sorry, sorry!” he soothed as Sherlock whined at the memory, and then chuckled, shaking his head as he dropped both hands in front of Sherlock’s face. “Come on.” He curled his fingers in beckoning, bobbing his head at the wall. “Your bed’s got to be at least a little more comfortable than the bathroom floor.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, a distant memory of an article on the benefits of sleeping on hard surfaces tickling at the edges of his mind, but the pull of exhaustion was stronger, and he sighed, slapping both hands down into John’s and allowing the man to hoist him to his feet. His head swam at the sudden shift, body wobbling, but John’s arm was fast and tight around his waist, guiding them sidelong through the door and down the corridor.

“There ya go. Easy, now.” He lowered Sherlock to the edge of the bed, the embarrassment of sobriety beginning to burn in Sherlock’s cheeks, and he insisted on removing his own shoes and jacket, the trousers and shirt comfortable enough until he had the wherewithal to wriggle out of them. “I’m gonna grab you some more water,” John said from the door, lips twitching as Sherlock struggled to wrap the duvet around a very uncooperative leg. “You need anything else?”

“No,” he grumbled, giving up and collapsing back into his pillow, that foot surrendered to the monster under the bed for the evening.

John chuckled. “Okay,” he whispered, closing the door until only a crack of light remained, “I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock hummed, or heard a hum, at any rate, the darkness of the room already creeping in around the edges of his vision. His breaths lengthened as his limbs grew heavy, the mattress seeming to reach up and envelop him, only a _clink_ of glass and breath of a chuckle reaching his ears before the world faded to blissful black, but he did have a rather odd dream about a soldier defending his foot from a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep adding to this gotdamn thing, so it's safe to say you'll have updates to keep you company through the end of Series 4.

It was unclear at what point Sherlock woke up as opposed to having a nightmare about a jackhammer attacking his head, but he didn’t move for several minutes, taking his time even to open his eyes. When he did, it was one at a time, starting with a squint to slowly acclimate to the muffled light forcing its way through his curtain, and then he blinked up at the ceiling, mentally commanding his nonresponsive limbs to move. He returned to his body in stages—twitches of fingers, curlings of toes—until finally managing to drag his legs off the side of the bed, the shock of the cold floor jolting his brain enough to bring his arms into the fray, and he braced himself on the mattress with his palms, pushing upright with a groan. Steadying his upper body with one arm, he lifted the other hand to his forehead, pressing into his skull as it seemed to throb under his palm, and then gripped the edge of the mattress, taking a few deep breaths before rising up on rickety knees. He hobbled to the door, bracing himself on the doorframe as he pulled it open, and then felt his way along the wall to the kitchen, wincing against the light invading the flat, one hand held up in a futile shield.

“Good morning, starshine!” John turned as he shuffled through the door, looking over his shoulder as his hands fiddled with something on the counter. “The earth says hello!”

Sherlock grunted, scraping a chair out and collapsing into it as John chuckled, metal clinking on ceramic as he returned to his work.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, opening a drawer and removing a fork and knife, “I think Mrs. Hudson likes you better than me.”

Sherlock could only hum in question, closing his eyes with a yawn, a plate appearing in front of him when he opened them again.

“She didn’t make  _ me _ a fry-up when  _ I _ came home sloshed,” John muttered, dropping the utensils beside the mound of eggs, tomatoes, beans, and sausages that Sherlock’s stomach couldn’t seem to make up its mind about.

“I won’t eat all of it,” he assured, clearing his throat, his voice seeming to grate through the dry scratchy passage. “We can share.”

John shrugged, moving back to the counter, crouching down to peer through the murky coffee brewing in the French press. “Maybe after you’re done. Okay, so,”—he suppressed the plunger, head tilting as he watched the metal sieve glide through the liquid—“I have no idea if I did this right, but it should still be coffee.”

Sherlock chuckled, plucking at the scrambled eggs on his plate before braving a bite, the spongy saltiness warm on his tongue, his appetite rising to the surface at the first shock of flavor. “Thanks,” he murmured as John placed a cup beside his plate, a whiff of the steam rising from the surface telling Sherlock it would be too strong for his normal tastes, but these were special circumstances, and he’d seen John stir in his usual sugar, so he grasped the handle and took a sip, slurping at the top of the hot liquid. “Yep,” he muttered, nodding at John’s expectant expression, “still coffee.”

John smiled, and then poured himself a cup, Sherlock watching through his lashes as the blond tested a sip, blue eyes widening before he added more milk. “Barely,” he murmured, and Sherlock smiled, cutting off a bit of roasted tomato as John sat in the adjacent chair.

They fell into quiet comfort after that, Sherlock picking away at the breakfast while John sipped at his coffee, sifting through the paper laid out on the table in front of him, sliding the crossword out and toward Sherlock when he came to it.

“Molly text me earlier,” he said as he finished reading a piece in the sports section Sherlock was thankful not to be asked to make small talk over. “She’s having a small thing at her place tonight. Wanted to know if we could make it.”

Sherlock tipped his head side to side, grumbling in indecision, and then nodded, cutting a piece off a sausage link. “So long as there’s no punch,” he muttered, and, though John chuckled, Sherlock could feel the air in the room shift, the topic now broached, however unintentionally on his part, but there was a reason there wasn’t an idiom for putting cats back  _ into _ the bag.

“Did she get a new roommate yet?” John asked, tone ever so slightly stiffer, his eyes fixed on one spot in the paper. “After Irene moved out?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Still looking, last I heard.”

John hummed, shuffling the pages arbitrarily. “You know, Mary mentioned she was looking for a place,” he said, the set of his shoulder stiffening a moment later, a swallow rolling down the front of his throat. “When-When I talked to her last night.”

Sherlock nodded, expecting the now-familiar rush of jealousy and fear that usually came with John mentioning a woman, but nothing happened, a secret smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as he speared another clump of eggs. “Yeah, she mentioned she’d transferred recently.”

“You talked to her?” John asked, meeting Sherlock’s eyes with curious surprise, confusion growing when Sherlock nodded.

“Before the party. I was helping set up.”

“Voluntarily?” John snorted, and Sherlock shrugged a shoulder.

“I was with Irene anyway,” he said, intending it to be casual, but the context came rushing back, and he dropped his face, lowering his fork as his appetite temporarily vacated.

John stared down at the paper, nibbling at his lip as he flicked at the curled edge of one of the pages, the bouncing of his unseen leg vibrating through the floor into Sherlock’s feet. “Okay, this is stupid,” he spluttered, rattling his head as he leaned back in his chair. “About last night,” he started, but went no further, mouth open as his eyes blinked at Sherlock across the table.

Sherlock lifted a brow. “Yes?”

John closed his mouth with a swallow. “I-I don’t know, that’s as far as I had planned.” His eyes darted between Sherlock and the table, knuckles popping as he cracked them one-handed, and Sherlock dropped his face, a pit forming in his sinking stomach.

“It-It was late,” he muttered, shaking his head down at his eggs. “We’d been drinking. You-You don’t have to-”

“Woah, wait, no,” John interjected, stretching an arm out toward him, hand stopping just short of Sherlock’s wrist, but he’d swear he could feel the warmth reaching across that last inch. “I-I’m not trying to take it back,” he said, and Sherlock’s chin lifted, eyes scanning John’s, but there was no insincerity in the urgent blue gaze, “I just… I think we should talk about...what it means.”

Sherlock blinked, forehead creasing in question, and John sighed, pulling his hand away to run it through his hair.

“I- Okay, look, clearly, I’m rubbish at this,” he said in a rush, a huff of a laugh startled through Sherlock’s teeth, “but, I- I want to do it right. With you.” His eyes lifted, stealing what little breath Sherlock had left as they fixed on him. “And I know- I mean, I have  _ no _ idea what I’m doing, and-and you just...”—he rolled a hand in the air, the curious incident of the man in Victor’s bed going unsaid—“and now we”—another hand to indicate the living situation—“and it might be the worst timing in the known history of the world, but- Well, there it is...all the same.”

Sherlock watched as John looked down to his fingers, the tan digits twisting together over the newspaper, and tried to think of something to say, or, rather, something he  _ could _ say without sounding mad.

He couldn’t tell John that, of all the times and all the ways he’d imagined this moment, the reality surpassed it. He couldn’t say that the only thing bad about the timing was that it wasn’t years ago, but some things truly are better late than never. He couldn’t admit that Victor had just been a poor man’s John, a compromise, a distraction, an excuse. It had barely been 12 hours, and was far too soon to say that he saw nothing wrong with living at 221B and putting up with John’s terrible coffee, questionable taste in cinema, and truly appalling beer preferences for as long as John would put up with him, but, before he found an appropriate response, there was a hand waving in front of his face, John’s voice drifting into his ears as the fog cleared.

“Sherlock?” he was saying, face concerned as it came back into focus. “Okay, it’s getting a bit scary now.”

Sherlock blinked, rattling the remaining fuzz from his head. “Hmm?”

John stared, scanning his face, a furrow forming between his eyes as he lifted a brow. “Er...I think you’re supposed to say something now.”

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured, searching his plate for answers, but the seeds spotting the leaking tomato juice held no hidden wisdom, and he swallowed, meeting John’s sternum rather than his eyes. “Er, well...everything you said… For me. Too. Me too.”

John tipped his head down, casting a disparaging look from the tops of his eyes. “Seriously?”

“I’m trying!” Sherlock sputtered, wriggling in his chair, blood itching in his veins at the prospect of sentiment. “It’s...difficult.”

“Yes, I know,” John said flatly, and Sherlock sighed, supposing that was fair enough.

He couldn’t ask John to do  _ all _ the work. “I- Well, I- I’ve also liked you for a while. And I- I didn’t want to say anything, or-or I didn’t think I  _ should _ , or- I don’t know,” he sighed, shaking his head down at the table. “I guess I was just afraid. It- It felt like too big of a risk, ya know?” He lifted his face just long enough to see the man nod. “But I- I want to do it right too,” he murmured, hitching up his shoulders as he slid his hands between his knees. “I mean, I’ve no idea  _ how  _ to do it right, but everyone else seems to manage, so it can’t be too difficult.”

“Very reassuring,” John teased, but his smile was sincere, eyes soft as he met Sherlock’s shy gaze. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, and, just like that, Sherlock’s fear vanished, something in John’s voice assuring that he would not allow any force in the universe to prove him wrong.

Still, there was only so much emotion one could bare before noon—and whilst struggling through a hangover—so Sherlock only smiled, sliding his plate a few inches across the table as he pushed his chair out. “You can have the rest,” he offered, grimacing down at the white dress shirt and blue costume trousers, lingering reminders of a night he’d rather forget most of. “I need a shower.”

John chuckled, pulling the plate in front of him, the other hand stretching out to pinch Sherlock’s fork. “We should probably do some shopping before going to Molly’s,” he said, spearing a sausage and holding it aloft in front of his lips. “Even the rats will be starved soon.”

Sherlock lolled his head back, groaning at the ceiling, but man could not live on distaste for Sainsbury’s alone, and he nodded as he turned toward the corridor. “Fine,” he grumbled, rounding the corner, John’s laugh at his heels.

“I’ll let you ride in the cart,” he mocked, Sherlock rolling his eyes as he entered his room, hastily collected a clean set of clothes.

“Can I have a pick’n’mix too?”

“Only if you’re good,” John replied, voice muffled with what Sherlock guessed was eggs, but he could think of no rebuttal, and closed the bathroom door between them, pretending not to hear John’s self-satisfied chuckle as he wondered at the strangeness of normalcy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think the unilock squad has ever been so important/fleshed out as they are in this fic, and I love every. single. one of them.

Perhaps it was a long-term side effect of the alcohol, but Sherlock got through most of his first day as John Watson’s to-be-determined without so much as a ripple of panic. For the most part, nothing seemed to have changed, John clipping his ankles with the cart and muttering on about vitamin deficiencies just like he always did when they went to the shops. If Sherlock could find anything different, it was that their interactions felt easier, smoother, like they had been catching on rough edges he hadn’t even noticed were there until they’d eroded away. The looks were longer, smiles wider, laughter louder, and nobody pulled away with a jolt when they incidentally brushed a shoulder or side while piling the groceries in the fridge, though the blushing did appear to have worsened, mostly on Sherlock’s part.

It was devoid of the dramatic, a shift steeped in nuance, and definitely not what Sherlock had expected, but he supposed it only made sense for them, already past the sort of milestones that inspired romantic flights of fancy. Would he have appreciated a little pomp and circumstance? Perhaps, but then he’d always had a flair for the dramatic, and he could hardly have expected John to rent a horse for the occasion—brown, of course, white was too contrived. Still, the gentle stroll upward from friends to something more was fine with him, the pressure removed as they played each moment by ear, hardly a care in the world.

That is, until Molly was buzzing them up to her flat, Sherlock gripping John’s arm as panic gripped his heart.

“Ow, what are you-”

“I didn’t tell Irene,” Sherlock panted, eyes darting between John’s, which somehow continued to look confused. “About...the thing. With us.”

John’s lips trembled with a bubbling laugh. “We have a thing?”

“John!” Sherlock hissed, rattling his arm as he released it. “This isn’t funny!”

“Oh, so it’s a serious thing?”

“ _ John _ !”

“Well, what do you wanna do about it now?” He lifted his hands out as he shrugged, casting a glance around the foyer. “Text her while we’re on our way up in the lift?”

“No,” Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head, “that would be even worse.”

“We could make some sort of proclamation when we came in.” He folded one arm behind his back, sweeping the other out toward Sherlock. “Hear ye, hear ye! Misters Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are now romantically involved!” He met Sherlock’s flat look with a grin, tipping his head as mischief sparked in his eyes. “I could probably find a trumpet intro too, if you’d like.”

Sherlock scoffed, pouting down at the ground as he kicked his heel against the tile, trying to think of an option with less fanfare.

“Do you...not want her to know?”

Sherlock looked up, curious at the dejected tone of John’s voice.

The man was looking at Sherlock’s feet, glancing up through the tops of his eyes to briefly meet the gaze, fingers fidgeting with the side hem of his jeans. “Because, I mean, we don’t...have to tell anyone. If you’re not- If you don’t want to.”

“No, I- It’s not that,” Sherlock assured, trying out a comforting smile as he shook his head, but he may have fallen short of the mark, John’s expression still skeptical. “I’m just worried she might be...put out I didn’t tell her. And that it will result in physical violence.”

John chuckled, the idea of Irene assaulting someone not difficult for anyone to accept. “Well...just tell her tomorrow,” he suggested, shrugging his shoulders. “Say the whole boyfriend conversation happened tonight instead.”

“No,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head, “she’ll be able to-” He stopped, eyes widening as they snapped to John, who took a half step back, wary under the scrutiny. “What did you say?”

John blinked. “Er...tell her tomorrow?”

“No, after that.”

“Tell her we talked tonight?”

“No, what  _ exactly _ did you say?”

John frowned, summoning up the specific recollection. “Just tell her tomorrow,” he recited. “Say the whole boyfriend conver-”

“That!” Sherlock pointed a finger at him, heart in his throat, stomach flipping just beneath it. “Is-Is that...  _ Are _ we...” He rolled a hand in the air to indicate the title, John quirking a brow before hissing a soft laugh.

“Er, well...yeah. I mean, I figured,” he mumbled, dropping his eyes and scratching at the back of his neck. “Unless you don’t-”

“No!” Sherlock interjected, clearing his throat of desperation before continuing, but John was already grinning, Sherlock’s closely guarded cards flung from his chest and scattered across the floor. “I was just...clarifying.”

“Mhmm.” John smirked, slipping his hands into the pockets of Sherlock’s pea coat—which Sherlock supposed a  _ boyfriend _ could tell him looked incredible, when the time arose—and nodding toward the lift. “Come on,” he said, starting away, “before Molly sends a search party.”

Sherlock swallowed, but obliged, the opportunity to turn back gone with the ringing of the bell, and entered the lift John held open with his arm, the blond pressing 8 while Sherlock pressed himself against the back wall.

John turned to find him there as the doors closed, chuckling as he leaned against the railing beside him. “It’ll be fine,” he soothed, Sherlock giving a perfunctory nod, unable to peel his eyes away from the climbing red numbers. “Hey.” He nudged him on the arm, Sherlock glancing out the corner of his eye as the third beep chimed. “How about we pick a codeword?” he suggested, stepping forward so Sherlock could more easily watch him and the ascent to certain death. “Then, if either of us wants to bail, we just say that and someone makes an excuse. Sound good?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, the lift rising past floor 7. “Vatican cameos,” he said, shrugging when John frowned. “It was on some TV series.”

John smiled, nodding as the lift bobbed to a stop. “Alright”—the doors rattled open behind him, and he stepped aside, waving Sherlock to go ahead—“vatican cameos.”

“Was that-”

“Nope,” John chirped, throwing an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and slinging him out the door like a discus.

He waited for John to go ahead, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff to keep from fidgeting, and John chuckled, shaking his head over his shoulder as he rang the bell.

The door swung open before the chime was even over, Irene’s head thrust out at them like the beginning of one of those haunted house movies no one survived. “ _ There  _ you are,” she huffed, planting one hand on her hip, the other swinging open the door to admit them. “Take the scenic route, did you?”

“The stairs,” John lied, though well enough, Sherlock busying himself with removing his coat and shoes before Irene could find the truth on his face. “Thought we’d try that whole fashionably late thing.”

Irene rolled her eyes, stepping aside as footsteps started down the corridor, Molly popping her head into the foyer a moment later.

“Oh, good, you’re just in time!” She reached past Irene, grabbing Sherlock by the sleeve of his thin purple jumper, forcing him to stumble after her or be stretched. “We were just about to start another round!”

“Of what?” He looked back over his shoulder, relieved to see John following close at his heels, though he could do without the smug smirk.

“Cards Against Humanity. What else do you play with a bunch of drunk, disenchanted millennials?”

“Beer pong?” John suggested, Molly laughing as she escorted them into the living room, the stereotypical cry of acknowledgment issuing from the gathered group.

Lestrade, Mike, and Mary—a quick glance at John confirming he was just as surprised by her presence—were gathered around Molly’s low coffee table, Mike on an ottoman while Mary and Lestrade sat on opposite sides of the sofa, a space for Molly between them.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence!” Lestrade teased, rolling a hand in implication of a bow. “There’s pizza in the kitchen.”

“I’ll grab it,” John said, glancing at Sherlock with a smile as Molly continued to drag him toward the table. “You want a drink?”

“Want?” Sherlock stage-whispered, John laughing as he disappeared into the kitchen.

“Sit,” Molly ordered, tugging down on his shoulders, and Sherlock toppled backward, panic flooding him a moment before he landed with a loud  _ flump _ on something simultaneously soft and granular.

“Eugh, Molly!” he spluttered, wriggling in vain, the confined quicksand of the beanbag chair only strengthened by resistance. “You know I hate this thing!”

“Of course I do,” she chirped, walking past him to take her place at the center of the sofa, “but it was the only seat left. And the only one big enough for you and John to share.”

“You have a  _ sofa _ !” He planted a palm on the faded floral polyester, trying to wriggle himself to an upright position.

Molly gasped, hand to her chest in faux offense. “You would kick me off my own sofa?”

“Yes!” Sherlock spat, gripping the edge of the coffee table for leverage. “There’s probably a whole ecosystem thriving in this thing!”

“I haven’t had it _ that _ long,” Molly muttered, smiling as Sherlock glared, a laugh over his shoulder distracting him before he could reply.

“You look comfortable,” John teased, reaching over him to place the pizza and two beer bottles on the table, Sherlock bending his neck back to glower at the man’s inverted smirk.

“Just help me up,” he snapped, extending an arm, and John laughed, taking it and hoisting Sherlock from the jaws of death. He tugged at the hem of his jumper, huffing as he brushed at the creases in the sleeves, casting a glare around the tittering group. “I guess I’ll sit on the  _ floor _ ,” he grumbled, Irene snorting into her cup as she draped her legs over the side of her armchair, crossing the ankles.

John chuckled, stepping around him and dragging the beanbag farther out from the table. “Here, it’s always easier if someone else sits in it first,” he said, flopping down into the seat and making it look embarrassingly simple, smiling up at him as he tapped one of the engorged sides. “There,” he clipped, Sherlock wary as he perched on the makeshift armrest, but John’s weight held the pellets in place, the beanbag hardly sinking at all under his weight.

“If there are no more peas the princess needs removed,” Irene sighed, Sherlock’s glare shifting from her to John when the latter snorted, “can we deal some cards? I wanna know which one of us is most likely to go on a killing spree.”

“You,” the entire group muttered in unison, bursting into laughter in the next breath, and Irene rolled her eyes, muttering curses as she reached across the table and began doling out the cards herself.

“Hey,” John hissed, nudging Sherlock on the arm, “can you grab my stuff? I’m afraid to move.”

Sherlock chuckled, passing the bottle back first, John tipping it up at him in thanks before taking a sip. He then grabbed their pizza, hovering the plate down toward John, and the man took it from his hand, balancing it on his lap.

“Other one’s yours,” he said, bobbing his head down at the plate as he lifted up a slice, tipping his head so as not to miss any of the cheese trying to escape off the tip.

“Alright, guys and dolls!” Irene clapped her hands together, dragging the pile of black cards into the center of the table. “Make me proud!”

Everyone lifted their small pile of white cards from the table, broken-off giggles and groans of disgust working their way around the group.

“No peeking,” John said as Sherlock passed his cards back to him, winking when Sherlock rolled his eyes, heat prickling at Sherlock’s cheeks as he ducked his head, fanning out his own hand.

“Alright, everyone ready?” Irene asked, scanning the circle, and all of them nodded, though some with more enthusiasm than others. She reached out, taking a black card from the pile and flipping it over with a flourish, Sherlock jolted out of reading it by Mary slamming a white card onto the table.

She looked around the ring of raised eyebrows with a shrug. “I have a good one,” she said, smiling as the group laughed, Irene waving a hand to call order before reading the card aloud.

“What would grandma find disturbing, yet oddly charming?”

“Jesus Christ,” John murmured, shaking his head as he scanned his cards, Lestrade and Mike chuckling to themselves, but Molly had gone beet red, lips sucked in over her teeth in a valiant effort to keep from giggling as she placed her card on the table, shoulders shaking with the suppressed amusement.

“Looks like someone’s proud of herself,” Lestrade muttered, Molly elbowing him in the arm, which he clutched at with a whine of faux pain.

“Man, I don’t have any good ones for this,” Mike sighed, shuffling through his cards before seeming to pull one out at random, placing it atop the pile, head shaking with defeat.

“Same,” Lestrade commiserated, following suit, and Irene’s eyes turned to them, sharp and expectant.

“Gentlemen?”

“Here,” John said, tapping Sherlock on the arm with his card, which he took and placed atop the pile.

“Waiting on you, princess.”

“Alright, alright,” Sherlock muttered, adding his two cents, and Irene swept up the contenders, shuffling them in her hands.

She cleared her throat. “What would grandma find disturbing, yet oddly charming?” She placed the card on the table, turning over the answers one by one. “Darth Vadar.” She raised a brow, Mike shrugging. Turning over the next card, she grimaced, laughing in a pained sort of way as she shook her head. “Menstruation.” A groan rolled around the group, Sherlock choking on a sip of beer as John thumped him on the back. “Soiling oneself,” she said with a snort, Molly covering her face with her hands and burying her blush in Greg’s arm, leaving little doubt who was responsible for that one. “Skeletor?” she read, and Greg shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t occupied. Irene rattled her head, turning over the next card and immediately ducking her face, hand pressed against her mouth as she fought to batten down her laughter. “A micropenis,” she squeaked, flinging the card onto the table, the group bursting with mirth, nearly incapacitated with it when Mike mimed removing a hat and placing it to his chest in mournful tribute. “And—oh, god—an Oedipus complex!” Everyone laughed a little at first, and then the implications sank in, faces wrinkling with disgust as they cried out in growing horror.

“Well,” Irene panted, wiping at the corner of her eye, “that’s… Yeah, so, what would grandma find disturbing, yet oddly charming? Darth Vadar, Skeletor, Menstruation, Soiling oneself, A micropenis, or An Oedipus complex? At least a couple of you have some issues to work through, but I’ve gotta give it to the micropenis; it needs  _ something _ in its sad, lonely life.”

John raised his hand, the room exploding in cackles and jeers, and he shifted a little on the beanbag, sitting up and shouting for order. “Hang on,  _ hang on _ , alright!” He leaned away, grabbing his beer and taking a swig, the movement dislodging the delicate balance of the chair, tipping Sherlock closer, but he found he didn’t much mind. “All’s I’m saying- ALL’S I’M SAYING is it takes a very secure man to play that card, alright?”

There was an outcry of booing, Mike leaning across to shove John on the shoulder, the blond laughing as he was nearly toppled off the chair, back into position just in time to be hit with one of the chocolate candies Mary had chucked at him from the dish on the table.

“Wait,  _ wait _ , in all fairness!” Greg shouted, spreading both arms out and batting his hands for silence. “I have been getting naked with this man for two years, and I have  _ never _ …felt better about myself.”

“Cheers, mate,” John said atop the renewed howling, stretching his beer out to  _ clink _ with Greg’s, both of them dipping impressively solemn nods before joining in, John rolling back on the beanbag, sliding Sherlock closer still.

“Your prize, good sir,” Irene said, passing him the card, which John tapped to his forehead in a salute before placing on the floor in front of him. “To John Watson!” she proclaimed, lifting her drink, everyone but the subject of the toast following suit. “An inspiration to us all!”

“Hear, hear!” Mike bellowed, while everyone else just laughed, taking a swig of their chosen poison.

John smiled, nodding thoughtfully. “It’s so nice to have such a supportive group of friends,” he mused, greeted mostly by raspberries, and then shook his head, leaning back into the beanbag as Irene turned the black deck toward Greg.

The movement brought him abreast with Sherlock’s shoulder, which was still shaking with lingering laughter, his beer bottle hovering at his lips, and he lowered it as he turned to John, a clever quip suffering a swift death on the tip of his tongue as their eyes locked.

The shifting of the beanbag chair had been a subtle process, Sherlock only realizing now in the quiet stillness how close they had drifted. Shoulders pressed, hips brushed, and knees grazed with every breath or simple stretch or reach. It was, just like everything else had been, nothing new, Sherlock fairly certain he had been entirely in John’s lap on this chair once or twice, but it  _ felt _ new. It was uncharted territory and unblemished snow, begging to be explored and preserved all at once, and he might have been offended by the fear in John’s widening eyes if he wasn’t feeling the same thing running as deep as his bones.

_ What now? _

Suddenly, John jolted away, blinking down and scanning his arm, and Sherlock looked to find cold condensation dripping from the bottom of his bottle, darkening the sleeve of John’s shirt.

“Sorry,” he spluttered, switching the beer to his other hand and placing it on the floor, but John only chuckled, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured with a smile. “It’s only water.”

A frail laugh hissed through Sherlock’s nose, eyes dropping to his lap a moment before lifting back to John, who was still watching him steadily, eyes shifting between his, as if reading something Sherlock wasn’t sure he wanted to give away.

“Hey!”

He yipped as a chocolate candy hit him in the cheek, John recoiling a second later as one hit his forehead with a  _ thunk _ , both of them turning to find Mary glaring at them.

“Pick up your cards,” she said, pointing at the decks they had abandoned on the table. “I have to redeem myself.”

“What did you have before?” Mike asked, adjusting the spread of his cards.

Mary grinned, eyes bright with self-satisfaction. “Menstruation,” she replied, a ripple of laughter bubbling through the group, but Sherlock could feel a hint of tension, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as he peered out of the corner of his eye.

Irene was staring at the side of his face, eyes narrowed and bright with the thrill of a hunt Sherlock knew she would never let up, so he took a deep breath, paying the piper and turning to meet her gaze. She blinked, seemingly surprised at the resignation, and then went to work, brow folding and smoothing as she examined him.

“Hey,” John said, Sherlock blinking as he was startled out of the staring contest, turning to find John’s smiling face over the remaining slice of pizza. “Are you gonna eat this? There’s plenty more in the kitchen, but-”

“Er, no, not right now,” Sherlock answered, glancing back to where Irene was still watching over John’s shoulder, gaze now spanning both of them. “Have at it.”

“ _ Eeeee _ xcellent,” John said, rubbing his hands together to complete the mad scientist impression, and Sherlock chuckled, a smile blooming on his face as a warmth expanded in his chest.

He looked up at Irene as John leaned forward, his back to Sherlock while he shuffled his cards, and was momentarily stunned by the expression on her face, a sort of misty softness he wouldn’t have thought her features could contort into until now.

The corners of her lips twitched up in a smile, her head dipping in an almost imperceptible nod, but the message was unmistakably, the subtle language of sentiment both of them preferred to speak through silence.

Sherlock swallowed through a suddenly thick throat, his eyes flicking to John before returning, and then he smiled, Irene biting her lip and turning away before she lost the battle with the grin he could see tugging at her mouth.

“Come on!” she jeered, swatting an impatient hand in the air. “I’m gonna wrinkle before somebody wins this thing!”

“Things I would pay to see,” Molly murmured, earning a sneer she stuck her tongue out to, but Greg turned over another card before more chocolate could be wasted.

“Next from J.K. Rowling: Harry Potter and the Chamber of blank,” he read, a broad range of reactions following, and so the evening wore on, sides splitting and Irene explaining some of the more crass cards  _ nobody  _ wanted to know how she understood while pizza and beer gradually disappeared from the kitchen, and, if anyone noticed John’s toe tracing absentminded patterns over Sherlock’s sock, they had the good grace to wait until they left to talk about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little update to stave off my TFP nerves. God help us all...

Sherlock awoke to fifteen text messages and three missed calls, all of them from Irene. He responded to nothing but the demand that he meet her for coffee at 10 after her morning exam, making it 10:30 out of spite, and then wandered into the kitchen to put the kettle on, John’s footsteps hobbling down the stairs shortly after it started to whistle.

“Morning,” he murmured, fully dressed apart from his shoes, and Sherlock nodded in reply as he pulled two mugs from the cupboard. “God, that was a late one,” he sighed, folding his head forward into his palms as he sat down at the table, elbows planted on the surface. “I always forget how long it takes to get back from Molly’s.”

“Only after 11,” Sherlock replied, tipping water over the tea bags.

John sighed, back cracking as he stretched over the back of the chair. “Remind me of that next time we’re over there on a weeknight.”

“It wasn’t a weeknight.” Sherlock smiled, crossing to the fridge to grab the milk and place it on the table. “It was Sunday.”

“A night-before-a-weekday, then,” John grumbled, Sherlock chuckling as he carried their mugs to the table, taking the chair opposite. “Especially a weekday we both have exams.”

“Not until later,” Sherlock reminded, wrapping his hands around the still-too-hot mug, watching the steam swirl cloudy tattoos over John’s face. “You meeting Molly beforehand?”

John nodded, unable to speak as a yawned seized his body, hand lifting over his gaping mouth. “11:30. At the library. You wanna come?”

“Can’t,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “I’m meeting Irene at 10:30, and then I’ll probably head over to Imperial.”

“And get lunch,” John ordered, a stern look passing over his mug. “Not even  _ your _ brain can run on last night’s pizza.”

“I’m getting coffee,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes at John’s unwavering expression. “I’ll get lunch,” he sighed, resigned, focusing on his tea rather than John’s smug smirk.

“Hey, er...”

He looked up, finding John’s eyes fixed on his mug, hands twitching at the handle as he twisted it centimeters side-to-side.

“Did- Did Irene...text you last night?”

Sherlock’s pulse lost its rhythm. “A little,” he lied, clearing his throat before the pitch of his voice could betray him.

“What… What about?” John glanced up through the tops of his eyes, his lashes a thin veil over the blue, but they did nothing to hide the meaning behind the question, and Sherlock swallowed, the tip of a finger tapping erratically against the ceramic.

“Er...well, she- She noticed...things. Last night,” he murmured, a small nod from John confirming his understanding. “And she just...wanted to know...what they meant.”

John coughed, scratching at the side of his neck. “And, er, what did you- What did you tell her?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head, watching his tea ripple with the impact of his strikes. “I figured I’d wait until we met up.”

John nodded, lifting his cup for a sip, the glassware coming down hard on the table as he replaced it. “So, what are you... _ going _ to tell her?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again, glancing between John and the table, trying to puzzle out what the man wanted him to say. “I-I don’t… What did you tell her?”

John blinked, seeming startled, clearing his throat as he scraped his tea across the table, an arbitrary repositioning to occupy idle hands. “I, er… I told her we were...together,” he murmured, Sherlock dropping his face as a soppy smile threatened to overpower him, “but then- Well, you know Irene.” He shook his head, shrugging a shoulder. “She started asking all these... _ specific _ questions”—he lifted his brows, Sherlock somehow managing to nod through the flames catching over his body—“at which point I pretended to be asleep.”

Sherlock’s chuckle was strangled, throat dry and mind racing, his body seeming to jump between intense embarrassment and unbearable curiosity.

“But it, er… It got me thinking,” John murmured down at his tea, and Sherlock was sure he was dead, nothing but a lingering spirit left behind in his chair, “about...that side of things, and I- Well, I don’t- I want- UGH!” He stood up in a rush, chair scraping across the floor, and then stomped out of the room, footsteps stopping somewhere in the middle of the living room.

Sherlock blinked at the vacated space, wondering how he could have said something so wrong without speaking, but then his mobile beeped from his pocket, pulling his attention away. He glanced at the contact name, expecting it to be Irene trying to push their meeting to 10:15, but instead found John’s name, another message coming in as he watched. Looking between the screen and the wall he could imagine John pacing beyond, he opened the texts, eyes widening as he read through the words several times to ensure they weren’t a trick of the LCD light.

**_Sorry I know this is weird but I’m emotionally constipated and won’t say it right to your face_ **

**_I don’t want you to think I don’t find you attractive. Or don’t think about those sorts of things._ **

Sherlock lowered the phone, glancing around the room as his cheeks blazed, half expecting someone to pop out with a camera and tell him this was all an elaborate joke, but nothing happened apart from the phone chirping again.

**_It’s just a weird transition. Not bad weird, just regular weird. Good weird even. I’m just not used to being friends with people before I date them._ **

Another beep.

**_Which is probably the root of all my dating problems._ **

Another.

**_God hearing yourself multitexting is so embarrassing_ **

Sherlock started to chuckle, and then clapped a hand to his mouth, remembering John’s proximity.

**_What I’m fucking up saying is that I think we should take it slow_ **

**_If that’s okay._ **

**_With you._ **

**_Stop me please I have a condition_ **

Sherlock smiled, typing a quick response to put John out of his misery.

_ Okay _ .

Silence for a moment, and then footsteps in lieu of a reply, nothing but John’s eyes peeking around the doorframe.

“Okay?” he murmured, voice muffled by the lead-painted wood.

Sherlock chuckled, nodding, and the remainder of the man’s fluorescent red face appeared, followed by a wary body.

“You’re sure?”

“That’s usually what this”—he pointed at his chin, bobbing it up and down for emphasis—“means, yes.”

“Because it’s really not that I don’t...want to, I just-”

“John, really,” Sherlock interjected, shaking his head with a smile, emotional reassurance not exactly his strong suit, but John looked about ready to faint or vomit, though hopefully in reverse order. “It’s fine. It’s only been, what, a day?”

John tipped his head to the side. “Well, yeah, but-but still...”

“John,” Sherlock sighed, standing up and draining the rest of his tea before crossing to the sink to rinse the mug, “it. is.  _ fine _ .” He turned, finding the man’s eyes still pinched and hesitant, and then shrugged his shoulders, leaning his spine back against the counter. “I’m not that kind of girl anyway.”

That seemed to do the trick, John shaking his head as he laughed, the tension unwinding from his shoulders. “Idiot,” he muttered, smile broadening as Sherlock grinned. “I’ve gotta finish getting ready.” He grabbed his mug off the table, leaning against the doorframe as he took a long sip. “You just have the one exam today, right?”

Sherlock hummed in confirmation. “Should be back by 5. Are you and Molly doing anything after yours?”

John shook his head, swallowing a mouthful of tea. “No, she’s got something with Greg. I thought we might...go out.” He shrugged a shoulder, eyes averted as he lifted the cup to his lips again, cheeks pinkening in spite of the liquid being lukewarm at best. “Grab dinner. Celebrate finishing Day 1 of academic hell week.”

Sherlock’s lingering spirit was drifting even further away, floating up toward the ceiling and into the proverbial light. “Like...a date?” he unintentionally said aloud, his organs a conflagration turning him to ash from the inside out.

John smiled, giving Sherlock the contradictory reaction of chills.

Maybe he was coming down with the flu.

“Well, yeah,” he said, as if it wasn’t every wish of Sherlock’s past two years coming true before his eyes, but, then again, Sherlock would rather he didn’t know that. “I think that’s part of the package.”

“Er...right,” Sherlock murmured, rattling his head to complete the circuit of his brain once more. “I mean, yes. Dinner would be...nice.”

“Great! Text me when you’re out of your exam, yeah?” he asked, smile broadening to a grin when Sherlock nodded. “Better get going,” he added, gesturing to the time on the microwave. “Can’t be late for Irene.”

“No, that’s her department,” Sherlock muttered, John chuckling as he took another sip of tea, pushing off the doorframe and stepping backward into the corridor.

“I’ll see ya tonight,” he said, lifting the mug in farewell. “Good luck with the exam.”

“You too,” Sherlock wished, John nodding in thanks before disappearing, the bathroom door creaking closed a few footsteps later.

For the sake of posterity, Sherlock made his way down the stairs, taking his moment to digest in the foyer rather than the kitchen, lest John realize he was still standing there blinking at the empty doorway like an idiot. He knew this was how it worked, of course, people who were  _ dating _ going on  _ dates _ , but it still felt odd to be thrust into the reality of going on dates with  _ John _ . All his imagined scenarios forsook him as he stood there, trying to conjure up realistic expectations, everything seeming to either fall short or shoot too high.

_ I think we should take it slow _

The words from John’s text rolled past his mind’s eye, and he frowned, pulling his coat off the hook and around his shoulders.

What did a slow date look like? Or a slow relationship at all, for that matter? Sherlock’s experience with relationships was a sample size of one, and, he supposed, that had moved on the slower side of things, but it felt different with John, stilted, like forcing a dike on a river, curbing the natural order.

Or maybe that was just how he felt.

Shaking it off, he buttoned his coat, bolstering himself with a reminder that, regardless, he had a date with John Watson tonight, and his heart felt a little lighter as he stepped out into the wintry wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's inauguration day here in America, and I think we could all do with a laugh, so have some next-level unilock squad. They're helping. Honest.

He thought he was hallucinating when he first stepped into the shop, finding Irene already waiting at their window table. She glared at him as he approached, fingers strumming across the table, but the cup of coffee she slid across at him was still piping hot, exposing her short wait.

“Rough night?” she murmured around the lip of her cup, raising a brow as he greedily sucked in the bitter liquid.

Sherlock shook his head. “Cold,” he explained, lowering the mug to the table, but kept his hands cupped around the sides.

Irene hummed, glancing out the window as she swallowed her mouthful. “So,” she started, thumping the cup on the table, “how long have you been taking John’s watson?”

Sherlock choked on saliva, spluttering violently as he fought for breath. “Irene!”

“What?” She shrugged, metallic grey nails glittering in the light as she lifted her drink. “No sense beating around the bush.”

“There is no”—Irene’s brow lifted into her hair, prompting Sherlock to redirect—“nothing going on.”

“But you’re together,” she said. “John said you were together.”

Sherlock nodded, stomach still flipping a little at the thought. “We are.”

“But you’re not screwing?”

“No, we- It’s been two days!”

“So?” Irene muttered, leaning back and draping an elbow over the back of the chair. “Probably only need two minutes for you lot.”

Sherlock swallowed, glaring to distract from the blush he could feel prickling up his neck. “We’re taking it slow,” he snapped, Irene rolling her eyes with a huff. “John doesn’t want to rush anything.”

“John?” The woman’s eyes turned sharp, Sherlock’s stomach twisting as he fought to keep his expression blank. “What about you? Do you want to ‘take it slow’?” She curled her fingers around the words, voice breathy with condescension.

Sherlock dropped his gaze with a shrug, fingers tightening around the varnished handle of his mug. “I don’t mind.”

“But do you want to?”

“I just said-”

“You said you didn’t mind, not minding isn’t wanting,” she interjected, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward over the table. “So what do you want?”

Sherlock looked up at her through his lashes, trying to think of a lie he knew would be futile, but his silence answered for him, and Irene sighed, shaking her head as she straightened in her chair again.

“For heaven’s sake, Sherlock, if you want to start rounding the bases, you should just say so! I’m sure John isn’t  _ actively  _ against it.”

“He said he wanted to take things slow,” Sherlock protested, shrugging a shoulder. “That he wanted to do this right.”

“And what, make an honest woman out of you first?” Irene scoffed, lifting a brow at Sherlock’s scowl, and then her expression softened, a hand stretching out to rest on his wrist. “Look, I’m sure he’s just nervous,” she said, smiling at Sherlock’s skepticism. “Probably doesn’t wanna spook you so soon after Victor.”

“Why would I be spooked?” Sherlock muttered with a frown. “I didn’t even like Victor.”

Irene’s face flattened. “Sherlock. You  _ lived  _ with him.”

“Out of convenience,” Sherlock reminded, but Irene only shook her head, sighing in exasperation.

“Okay, fine, you’re right, totally absurd for John to be nervous about moving too quickly less than a month after you moved out of your boyfriend-of-convenience’s flat and into his.”

He dropped his eyes from her patronizing gaze, feet fidgeting against the support post of the table, loathing the truth in the words. “I- I suppose-”

“Oh, hey, guys!” Molly approached from the doorway, untangling a muted gold scarf from her neck. “Fancy meeting you here!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching Molly’s dart between him and Irene, the edges of her smile pinching under his scrutiny. “Lying,” he announced, Molly’s face pinkening as it fell, and he turned to Irene, catching the end of an eyeroll. “You planned this.”

“Strength in numbers,” she said, grabbing a chair from the table nextdoor and swinging it between them, waving Molly to sit. “Now, you were about to admit I was right.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were about to imply it, then.”

“I was about to leave.”

“Oh, no, Sherlock, please!” Molly spluttered, lunging out to pin his forearm to the table. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to...to  _ ambush _ you or anything like that, we just- Well, we got talking after you and John left last night, and we wanted to-”

“We?” Sherlock echoed, squinting at the girl, who looked suddenly trapped, eyes wide and frantic as they flicked to Irene. “John and I left first,” he said, scanning between them, neither woman meeting his eyes anymore. “How many people is ‘we’?”

As if on cue, the bell over the door chimed, Sherlock turning to find the back of a familiar head of curly blond hair protruding from a brilliant red coat.

“Oh, hello!” Mary said, smile bright and much more convincing than Molly’s as she approached, tugging off her thick wool mittens. “You guys recovering from exams too?”

Sherlock gave her a flat look, shifting to a glower as he rounded on Irene, the woman looking out the window to her left as she slurped up a mouthful of coffee. “How long?” he asked, Irene quirking a questioning brow over the lip of her mug, but Sherlock didn’t play along, continuing to glare until she relented, placing the cup on the table and pulling out her mobile with a sigh.

“Two minutes,” she said, swiping out a message and sitting the phone beside her mug. “They’re waiting in the bookstore around the corner.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, shuffling his chair farther around the table, making room for Mary and the other impending guests. “Why am I getting the intervention?” he griped, sneering at Mary’s smile as she draped her coat over the back of her chair. “John started it.”

“Oh, did he?” Mary said, leaning forward with eager eyes. “We were wondering. So, it was after the Christmas party, right? Or during? I was trying to keep watch, but there were too many people.”

“Keep watch?” Sherlock questioned, brow wrinkling, and Mary nodded.

“After John and I stopped talking. Not that it was much of a conversation,” she muttered, shrugging an unconcerned shoulder. “Spent half of it looking over his shoulder glaring daggers at anyone you talked to.”

Sherlock blinked, temporarily forgetting his righteous fury and betrayal. “He-He did?” he murmured, and Mary smiled, bobbing her chin.

“Yep. Not sure he’d remember a word I said that night.”

“Oh,” Sherlock mumbled, smiling down at the table, face lifting as the door swung open again, Greg and Mike shuffling in looking sheepish.

“In my defense,” Greg announced, lifting his palms, “I told them this was a terrible idea.”

Sherlock glanced past him to Mike, who shrugged.

“I rather liked it,” he muttered, the group chuckling as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well, I don’t know what you’re all expecting,” he said as the two men grabbed chairs, Sherlock finding himself fancing a tribunal on the other side of the round table, “but you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Depends on our expectations,” Irene said, smile infuriatingly triumphant as she propped her elbows on the table, cradling her chin in her palms. “Now, let’s start with the party.”

“No, we have to go back further than that,” Molly chimed in, looking over her fellow inquisitors. “To the fight. I still don’t know what that was about.”

There was a murmur of agreement, eyes turning to Sherlock while his turned to Irene.

“You didn’t tell them?” he asked, and Irene shook her head.

“No. Didn’t think it was my place.”

Sherlock blinked, expecting a laugh that never came. “Right,” he muttered, brow creasing in growing disbelief, “well...thank you for that... _ restraint _ .”

Mary snorted, Mike and Greg quickly averting their eyes, but Molly was on a mission, leaning forward to cut off Irene’s retort.

“No, she didn’t tell us, so”—she planted an elbow on the table, chin resting on the curled fingers of a fist—“what happened?”

Sherlock scanned across the eager faces, mouth shifting with false starts. “Well, I- Irene had just- John saw-”

“Oh, for the love of- John walked in on me heckling Sherlock into his Nutcracker costume and got a jealousy boner.”

“Irene!”

“What?” the woman cried amidst raucous laughter. “That’s what happened! His dick popped all the way up into his personality!”

Sherlock bowed his blazing face into a palm, shaking his head. “He did not- There was no- What am I even supposed to say to that?” He lifted his face, tipping the now-free hand open in question, but Irene only shrugged, Greg chiming in before anyone could—in some unimaginable way—worsen the situation.

“Alright, well, putting John’s dick aside for the moment-”

“Things Sherlock Would Never Say for $500, Alex!”

“ _ Irene _ !?”

“I see them; I call them.”

“-how did the argument end?” Greg concluded, looking between the two of them like he was fully prepared to turn this car around.

Sherlock tore his glare away from Irene’s smug sneer, sighing out most of his aggression. “Basically,” he said, casting a look over the group at large, “he thought I was going to let Irene set me up at the party.”

“So what?”

“That’s what I said”—he waved a hand at Mary, knowing there was a reason he’d liked her immediately—“but he thought it was too soon or something for me to be ‘picking up strangers at parties.’”

“Bit pot to kettle, isn’t it?”

“Also what I said.” He dipped a nod to Mike, surprised at how well this venting thing seemed to be going. He might have to try it more often. “Anyway, he said he didn’t want me getting hurt, I said it was none of his business, he disrespectfully disagreed, and I left.” He shrugged, glancing around his friends, who appeared satisfied, nods or thoughtful frowns of understanding greeting his gaze. “We didn’t talk again until the party.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Molly muttered, eyes widening as she shook her head. “He must’ve called me three or four times. At least a dozen texts. And you got even more, didn’t you?”

Irene nodded. “When I stopped picking up, he left a voicemail. A  _ voicemail _ .”

“He left me five of them,” Sherlock deadpanned, Greg letting out a low whistle, “and, in one, he said there was something ‘important’ he wanted to talk about, so-”

“You’re having a coronary.”

“Obviously,” he confirmed, Molly nodding, “so, then, at the party-”

“I ruined everything,” Mary interrupted, lifting her hands in acceptance of the self-criticism. “Although, to be fair, I didn’t know I was walking into an  _ EastEnders _ episode.”

“Neither did I,” Irene murmured. “If I’d known you and John had dated, I would’ve-”

“Wait, what?” Mike interrupted, leaning forward to find Mary’s face. “You dated John?”

Mary flipped a hand in the air, shaking her head. “It was Year 8, and only for a couple months.”

“ _ Months _ !?” Greg, Molly, and Irene exclaimed, Mary startling in her chair as she turned wide eyes on their gaping months.

“I- Yes.” Her brow furrowed as she scanned between them. “Why?”

“Because no one’s made it more than a couple  _ weeks _ in years,” Irene said, and Mary blinked, cheeks pinkening.

“Well, I- I don’t-”

“He wasn’t always like that.”

All eyes turned to Mike, who seemed surprised by it, looking between them with a gradually growing frown.

“You guys did...know that, right? About his parents’ divorce?”

“Of course,” Greg said, everyone nodding in accord. “I mean, we know it  _ happened _ .”

“Well,” Mike murmured, shifting his weight in his chair, fingers twisting in his lap, “I-I don’t think I should- Look, let’s just say that...changed some things, alright?” He glanced around their prying eyes. “He-He didn’t see it coming.”

The group dropped their heads, nodding thoughtfully, more than a few concerned glances shooting Sherlock’s way, but the information comforted more than alarmed him, an answer to a long-pondered question, and John had told him he didn’t know what he was doing, that he wanted to take it slow, get it right. Not much more could be reasonably expected of a person.

“Mary wasn’t the last one though, right? What!?” Irene blurted as Molly swatted her on the arm. “Everyone’s thinking it!”

Mike chuckled, shaking his head and adjusting his glasses. “No, there were at least two that I knew of. Sorry,” he added to the blonde, who shrugged.

“Can’t win ‘em all,” she sighed, the mood lightening with a chuckle before Molly herded them back the matter at hand.

“So, what happened with you two at the party? Irene said she left you hitting it off with some guy, and then, next she knows, you and John are eloping with his food?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, lips hovering open as he considered. “That’s...rather reductive, but not... _ entirely _ inaccurate.” Eager faces met his gaze, and he relished the silence a moment before taking a deep breath. “I was somewhat intoxicated-”

“Somewhat sloshed is more like it.”

He shot Irene a pinched glare, but thought it better not to argue, the remainder of the story not going to shake out on his side of that fight. “-and was talking to one of Irene’s friends, Ethan.”

“Surprised you can remember his name.”

“I’ll sign it on the bottom of the apology card and everything,” Sherlock snapped, Irene holding his gaze a long moment before relenting with a sigh and beckoning wave of her hand. “Anyway, that’s when John showed up.”

“Fucking hell, it really is  _ EastEnders _ ,” Mary breathed, shuffling her chair closer, Sherlock sparing her a smile before continuing.

“He was...concerned about my level of inebriation-”

“Fucking. Plastered.”

“-and insisted we go home-”

“We!” Molly squealed, Greg looking at her like she hung the moon and then tripped over it. “Home!”

“-which, given the current circumstances, I was not particularly receptive to-”

“Naturally,” Mary sympathized.

“-but, I was tired, and-and-”

“You had to unlock the mystery of the dreaded important conversation,” Greg supplied, shrugging a shoulder when Sherlock nodded. “Makes sense.”

“So, we left, and-”

“Wait, hold on.” Irene lifted a hand into the middle of the group. “So you didn’t steal Ethan’s food?”

“Oh, no- I mean, yes, we did. Well, John did,” he said, waving a hand at his imaginary counterpart. “We were leaving, and I’d mentioned I hadn’t had anything to eat, so he just”—he swirled his fingers in an indistinct gesture—“took it.”

Irene rolled her eyes, rattling her head and leaning back to cross her legs. “Men.”

“So did you talk in the cab?”

Sherlock turned to Molly, shaking his head. “No, I-I wasn’t feeling well.”

“W _ aaaa _ st-”

“Yes, alright!” he snapped, and Irene chuckled. “Anyway, I went upstairs with Mrs. Hudson while John got chips from the diner. She left when he got back, and, after that...”

“Yes?”

Sherlock glanced to Mary, and then over the rest of his friends, the spotlight he was sitting in starting to burn from exposure. “Well...it was all a bit of a mess at first.” He shrugged a shoulder, addressing his cooling coffee. “He went off about me talking to Ethan-”

“Cough jealousy boner cough.”

“Did you just  _ say _ the coughs?”

“It’s ironic.”

“-and then I went off about him having a go at me  _ for _ talking to Ethan, and then-” He stopped, mouth frozen open, his brain snarling into overdrive as he tried to find a way to describe the events without Molly cooing.

“He revealed the jealousy boner?”

“Will you stop with-”

“Actually,” Sherlock said, Molly’s jaw dropping to the floor mid-retort while Irene beamed, “in the metaphorical sense”—Irene’s shoulders slumped—“that is what happened.”

The group frowned, five sets of perplexed eyes blinking at him in near synchronicity.

“You mean...he admitted he was jealous?” Greg supposed, and Sherlock nodded, more than a little impressed.

Maybe he should stop rolling his eyes every time Greg said he wanted to be a detective.

“Of Ethan, or, like...generally?”

“Both.”

“Blimey,” Greg murmured, mouth lifting in lopsided smile, “didn’t think our boy had it in him.”

“Jealousy?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head down at Mary, “humility.”

Small puffs of laughter hissed from the group, but the attention swiftly returned to Sherlock, drawn like a magnet to his impending embarrassment.

“What happened next?” Molly urged, hands perched on her palms, and Sherlock swallowed, dictating the next portion to the table.

“He-He said he had been...thinking about it for a while, and-and that he wanted to...give it a shot.” He flicked his gaze up through his lashes, taking in flashes of the puzzled expressions.

“Give it a shot,” Irene deadpanned. “He said he wanted to...give it a  _ shot _ ?”

“No, not- He didn’t use those words.”

“Well, I should hope not.”

“So, what  _ did _ he say?”

“Oh, come on, we don’t need all that,” Greg interjected, looking between the two brunette’s ganging up on him. “We got the gist; let the man keep his specifics.”

“Thank you,  _ Greg _ ,” he said with a pointed look at the women, but Molly shook it off quick enough, arms pressed against the table edge as she craned forward.

“Fine, just tell us how it ended.”

“Ended?”

“Yeah, like, where you left it after that.”

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered, leaning back in his chair, stomach wriggling at the memory, “well, er-”

“Did you kiss?”

“What!? No!”

“They’re taking it slow.”

“Ah.”

“But Sherlock doesn’t want to.”

“Oooh!”

“Do you  _ mind _ !”

Molly sucked her lips in over her teeth, miming a zipper and completely contradictory tossing of a key.

Irene just smirked.

“We- Well, I- He was...talking, and-and I-” He froze on the words, incapable of continuing, his throat closing up to release only gargling, which, of course, led to everyone tossing out a guess.

“Farted?”

“No.”

“Fainted?”

“Like a Jane Austen heroine.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Molly wrinkled her nose at him. “Don’t mock! Greg almost fainted when we first met.”

“I had a concussion.”

“No, you didn’t, the doctor said you were fine.”

“No, he said it was a miracle I didn’t have a concussion.”

“Which means you didn’t have a concussion.”

“I think the point still stands.”

“Wait, how did you end up with an almost-concussion?” Mary broke in, Sherlock relieved at the temporary reprieve, even if he had heard the story fifty times.

Molly looked to Greg, inviting him to begin.

“Well,  _ someone _ , who shall remain nameless, was riding her bike on the wrong side of the path-”

“I was taking a corner.”

“-and crashed into my law-abiding self.”

“Only nearly.”

“Because I swerved out of the way and toppled down an embankment.” Greg looked at her, brows raised, inviting a reply, but Molly only closed her mouth, blushing faintly as she dropped her face.

“Well...I helped you up,” she murmured, the group laughing as Greg shook his head, dropping a light kiss into her hair.

“That you did,” he said, drawing the focus back to Sherlock as he turned. “But, enough about us, let’s get back to embarrassing Sherlock!”

“Cheers.”

“Any time.”

“So, you didn’t fart or faint,” Mary recapped, counting the guesses on her fingers. “Did you...cry?”

He shook his head.

“Pop a boner?”

“You really can’t let that go, can you?”

“Were you sick?”

Sherlock’s eyes jerked from Irene to Mike, lips pressing to a thin line, the silence stretching for long enough to answer for him, and the group exploded into laughter and sounds of disgust that drew scolding looks from several nearby patrons.

“Are you  _ shitting _ me!?” Irene laughed, body swaying forward as she pounded her hands on the table. “Mid love confession, and you fucking chunder all over the carpet!?”

“It wasn’t a love confession,” he snipped, feeling the heat creeping past his collar, “and I ran into the bathroom.”

“But it was in the middle of his speech?”

He opened his mouth, holding it open for several seconds, and then closed it with a sigh, shaking his head as the laughter strengthened.

“So, that’s where you left it?” Molly asked as Greg and Mike wiped at the corners of their eyes, still rolling in their chairs. “You being sick?”

Sherlock twitched a shoulder. “For the most part. I went to bed, and then we picked it up in the morning.”

“What happened in the morning?”

“Nothing dramatic,” he said, shaking his head. “Just...confirming without alcohol involved.”

“And it was confirmed?” Molly asked, beaming when Sherlock nodded. “Well, that’s- I mean, it could’ve done without the sick, but, otherwise, that’s- Wow. Wow, so you’re, like, really doing it, then? Dating? You and John?”

Sherlock scanned the group, their hopeful eyes riveted, not a one of them seeming to be breathing. “I-I suppose.” He jumped at the answering exultant cry, Greg and Mike exchanging a high-five that wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Olympics.

“Finally!” Mike exclaimed, lifting his hands to the heavens, or at least the ceiling. “I’ve been telling him since Day One, Day-fucking-One, but, did he listen?”

“Nope,” Greg supplied, popping the consonant and shaking his head.

“No! No, he did not! I swear, the amount of pints he spent  _ whinging _ about Victor, I half thought  _ he _ wanted to date him.”

“Wait, John- John talked to you? About Victor?”

Mike and Greg nodded.

“All the time,” Greg said, looking down at the table, both his and Mike’s eyes drifting far away, recounting past horrors. “Don’t think he realized it, though. Always telling the same stories too, like that one-”

“The cardigan,” Mike finished, nodding into the middle distance. “Yeah, he got a lot of mileage out of that one.”

“The cardigan?” Sherlock asked, perplexed, shifting a frown between the two men. “What about a cardigan?”

Mike shrugged. “I guess Victor came to pick you up once when you were at John’s, and he had some new car? It had just been cleaned? I don’t remember, I stopped listening after the third time, but, at any rate, he was listening at the window, and-”

“He was  _ listening _ !?”

“He was jealous, we’ve established this. So, he’s listening, and he hears Victor say that you need to take your cardigan off and put it on your seat so the metal bits on your jeans don’t scratch the leather or something.” He shrugged, brows lifting. “That’s how he tells it, anyway. And tells it, and tells it...” he said, trailing away, Greg nodding solemnly at his side.

“No, that’s-that’s what happened,” Sherlock murmured, mind still spinning at the tidal wave of bombshells crashing over him. “And it was new upholstery.”

“That’s what it was!” Mike snapped his fingers, pointing at him. “Anyway, he turned that into the eighth deadly sin. That and the latte incident.”

Sherlock nodded, not needing to ask for clarification on that one. “So, he-he really was- I mean, he said he’d been jealous, but I-I didn’t- It’s really been that long?” His eyes widened as Mike bobbed his head, a pleasant sort of panic let loose to skitter about his chest.

“You really didn’t notice?” Greg asked, voice soft and eyes kind as he searched Sherlock’s lost expression. “I expected  _ John _ to be in denial, but I thought for sure you’d picked up on something, especially after you and Victor broke up. I mean, he was all  _ over _ you at Pizza Express!”

“He-He was drunk,” Sherlock mused, mulling over the night in his head, but, still, nothing stood out, nothing glaringly different from the way it had always- Oh.

“He wasn’t  _ that _ drunk,” Greg muttered, glancing at Molly, the only other member of the group who had been present. “Not at first, anyway. I reckon he got a bit carried away calming his nerves.”

_ ‘Was nervous’ _

_ ‘About what?’ _

_ ‘...Nothing.’ _

“Oh.” Sherlock closed his eyes, dropping his face into his palms, elbows flanking his coffee cup. “Oh,  _ shit _ .”

“Is it having an epiphany, Mel?”

“I believe it is, Sue.”

“Really, you’re gonna leave  _ me _ Mary Berry?”

“You really had no idea?” Greg interrupted, Sherlock and the women looking to him. “None? At all?”

Sherlock shook his head, Greg’s lips pursing in a silent whistle as he raised his brows.

“Well, that’s...fitting, actually.” He shrugged as Sherlock tipped his head, a smile curling his lips. “At least you’re both clueless.”

Silence for a beat, and then everyone laughed, Sherlock slowly joining in as Mike reached across to jostle his arm.

“The perfect pair,” he teased, Sherlock swatting him away as he ruffled his curls. “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

“I’ll drink to that!”

“I wouldn’t,” Molly advised as Irene reached for the handle. “It’ll be stone cold by now.”

“I can grab you another,” Mary offered, bobbing her head toward the register. “I still have to get my own anyway.”

“Yeah, me too,” Greg said, scraping his chair out, hand on Molly’s shoulder in silent assurance he’d order hers too. “Need some liquid sleep for my exam later. Anyone else?”

The conversation devolved into who owed who money, phones lifted and Venmo names exchanged as they decided how best to break up the orders, milk and whipped cream preferences being jotted down in mobile memos, and Sherlock leaned back, smiling out over his unexpected Spanish Inquisition and making a mental note of his own.

Check QMUL transfer policy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hell of a week folks, but I do hope this ~8k first date lifts your spirits! AND, with this chapter, I officially pass ONE MILLION WORDS posted here on ao3!!!! It may be silly, but I'm very proud, and thanks to all of you who have been along for the ride, in however big or small a way.

**_What are you gonna wear?_ **

_ Clothes _

**_Pity_ **

Sherlock shook his head down at Irene’s message, lowering the mobile at his side while the free hand filed its way through his shirts for the fourth time, a fruitless endeavor cut off by another buzz of his phone.

**_Do you know where you’re going yet?_ **

_ Only that it’s Chinese _

**_Molly’s suggesting the purple shirt, but I think it’s too formal_ **

_ Helpful _

He huffed, tossing the phone onto his bed, ignoring the next message until he’d narrowed his closet down to three options.

**_We’re just trying to get you laid_ **

Sherlock rolled his eyes, ignoring the taunt.

_ Purple shirt, blue jumper, or green jumper? _

A few minutes went by, Sherlock twitching and tugging at the garments as he waited, swiping open the message as soon as the mobile hummed against his duvet.

**_Blue jumper, no undershirt_ **

_ It’s 5 degrees tonight _

**_Exactly ;)_ **

Sherlock grimaced, rattling his head and tossing the mobile aside as he returned to the closet to grab a thin white t-shirt, not quite willing to freeze to death, regardless of the payout. He did go with the blue jumper, however, pulling the cotton v-neck over his head before walking out to the bathroom, checking that the static hadn’t wreaked too much havoc with his hair, twirling the odd curl around his finger to smooth flyaways.

It was silly, he knew, fussing about things like clothes and hair when John had seen him bent over a toilet mere days ago and still seemed to like him, but it also felt like something of a rite of passage, struggling through the first date primping and panic, and Sherlock reached for his toothbrush for the third time that day, wanting to be absolutely positive his chicken salad lunch was scrubbed from his breath. He had just finishing rinsing, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a square of toilet tissue, when the front door swung shut, hurried footsteps following, and he chucked the paper in the bin and bolted to the kitchen, not wanting to be found at the scene of the sentimental crime.

“Sherlock?”

“In here,” he called back, leaping into a chair and spreading a random handful of papers in front of him, pretending to look up from reading as John entered the room.

“Hey,” he sighed, dropping his backpack to the floor with a  _ clunk _ , fingers yanking at the zipper of his jacket. “Cold one tonight, ain’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. “The weather report said it would start snowing overnight. There’s supposed to be a couple inches by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Now back to you, John,” he quipped, cheeks still red from the cold as he grinned, smile softening while he draped his jacket over the back of the opposite chair, eyes sweeping the half of Sherlock he could see above the table. “You look...nice,” he murmured, and Sherlock bit hard at the inside of his cheek, seized with a sudden and inappropriate urge to laugh. “What’s the occasion?”

Some of his nervous energy released with a chuckle, and he shrugged, returning to his reading pantomime. “Never know when you might run into Tom Hiddleston.”

John laughed, starting past him toward the corridor. “Hard to argue with that logic. I just have to get changed and then we can go, alright?”

“Okay,” Sherlock muttered, the words blurring in front of him, a new level of panic setting in now that the event was nigh.

“Try not to elope with Tom Hiddleston before I get back.”

“I make no promises,” he said, John laughing at his back, but no footsteps started up the stairs, Sherlock just about to turn around when he felt a brush of cold fingers on the back of his neck, shoulders twitching in a silent jump as the very breath of life was sucked from him.

“Sorry,” John murmured, shifting at the fabric of Sherlock’s collar, Sherlock’s eyes closing as a shudder ran through him that had little to do with the chill of John’s skin. “Tag.”

A warbled croak of acknowledgment escaped his mouth, swallow rolling down his throat as John’s hand pulled away, brushing across Sherlock’s neck with what he would almost call purpose.

“Can’t be meeting Tom like that,” he added, and Sherlock laughed, though mostly out of relief, noting the slight strain in the man’s voice as well. “I’ll, er… I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock nodded, keeping his lips shut tight lest his voice betray him again, holding his breath until he heard John reach the landing. A gasp swept through his whole body, and he pitched forward, planting his elbows on the table and pressing his palms into his eyes, taking a few deep breaths before leaping up and racing to his room. Grabbing his mobile off the bed, he hit the appropriate speed dial key and waited, closing the door as the line began to ring.

“How could you possibly have fucked up-”

“I can’t do this,” Sherlock interrupted, pacing back and forth along the edge of his area rug. “It’s-It’s too much, I-I can’t-”

“Sherlock, calm down,” Irene said, and he swallowed, trying to take the advice. “What happened? You were fine five minutes ago.”

“He came back,” he explained, watching the ceiling, tracking John’s movements and counting down the time he had left. “He’s here. He’s getting changed and then we’re leaving and  _ I can’t do this _ !”

“Sherlock,” the woman snapped, sharp and firm, “listen to me. You have known John for two years. If he still likes you after all that, you can’t possibly ruin it in one night.”

“But, what if-”

“What could possibly happen that hasn’t already?” she interjected, and he frowned, trying to think, but his mind wasn't running efficiently enough to outrun Irene’s mouth. “You discover you’re allergic to mango and break out in hives? Happened.”

“To John, not to me.”

“Not the point. You slip on a patch of ice and need to be carried bridal-style to the car? Old news. You drink too much and spray him with sick?”

“I didn’t-”

“Been there, done that,” Irene barrelled on, and Sherlock sighed, frustrated, but growing less anxious. “If you two haven’t scared one another off by now, I don’t think Chinese food’s gonna do it.”

Sherlock stopped on the carpet, staring out the window, his eyes unfocused. “What if- What if he realizes...it was all a mistake? That he- That he doesn’t want to do this after all?”

“Sherlock,” Irene sighed, a hint of fond laughter in her voice, “that is  _ not _ going to happen. You know that deep down.”

He drew in a deep breath, exhaling as he lifted a hand to his hair, remembering not to disturb the coiffed curls just in time.

“I mean, really,” Irene continued with an audible smirk, “if he’s not sick of your posh arse by  _ now _ -”

“Alright,” he broke in as Irene chuckled, “I get it.”

“Good,” the woman clipped, but there was warmth hiding behind the sarcastic veneer, “because if I have to play therapist to you on my sofa again-”

“Sherlock?”

“I gotta go,” he muttered, hearing Irene’s fading “Good luck!” as he pulled the mobile from his ear, hastily hanging up and shoving it into his back pocket. Opening the door, he found John standing in the corridor, his back to him for the moment, giving Sherlock a chance for one last deep breath and a thorough scan.

John had changed into darker jeans—creases suggesting they were freshly washed—and donned the infamous slate date jumper, the churning in Sherlock’s stomach easing at the sight, deriving comfort from the evidence of equal effort. Perhaps the preferred date garment had never brought John a particular amount of luck, but there was something comforting about the routine, about the fact that John thought this  _ merited _ the routine, and Sherlock’s steps were buoyed with confidence as he moved forward, John turning at the  _ click _ of the bedroom door.

“There you are,” he said, grin wide beneath bright eyes. “Tom didn’t show up, then?”

“No,” Sherlock sighed, shaking his head, “he said he needed to wash his hair tonight.”

John laughed, nodding his head toward the staircase. “Well, I hope I’m a suitable substitute.”

Sherlock smiled, ducking his face to the ground, nodding as he lifted his eyes. “You’ll do,” he murmured, John chuckling as they made their way down the steps. “Are we walking?” he asked, shaking his arms into his coat, grabbing his scarf when John nodded.

“It’s not far. Few blocks.” He fastened the last button of Sherlock’s peacoat, a soft smile on his face as it lifted. “I always pick somewhere close for the first date.”

Sherlock was grateful for the dim light of the foyer, bending down to tie his shoes to hide the worst of the flush. “I’m not sure it still counts if you’re living with said date.”

“Maybe not,” John muttered, shrugging a shoulder, “but it’s too cold to go any farther.”

“Fair point.” Sherlock stood, tucking the ends of his scarf into his coat and turning up the collar, frowning when John let out a small puff of laughter. “What?”

“Nothing,” John assured, shaking his head. “Just you. With your collar.” He lifted his hands, mimicking the movement. “You turn it up when you’re nervous.”

Sherlock’s eyes skittered away, fingers making needless adjustments to the folds of his scarf as he cleared his throat. “Or when it’s windy,” he said, and John smiled, turning away and wrapping a gloved hand around the doorknob.

“Ready?” he asked, pulling open the door when Sherlock nodded, both of them scuttling into the cold before Mrs. Hudson could materialize to scold them for ‘letting the heat out’. “This way,” he said, jerking a thumb to the right, and Sherlock followed, striding abreast John’s shoulder.

“Where are we going?” he asked, the fifth time in total, first in person, but John only shook his head, giving no more away now that he had over text.

“You’ll see,” he said, both of them ducking their heads as a gust of wind buffeted their faces.

“Or you could tell me,” Sherlock shouted over the gale, John’s laugh audible as the air stilled once more.

“Haven’t you ever heard of a surprise?”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“Of course you do.” He looked up, cheeky grin illuminated by a lamppost as they passed. “Otherwise you would’ve  _ deduced _ it by now.”

Sherlock looked away before the twitching of his lips could turn into a proper smile, but John still seemed to know he’d won, his steps bouncing slightly on the pavement as they marched on.

“Right,” he guided, and they turned, heading down a dim side street, only a handful of storefronts still illuminated.

The scene plucked at a chord of Sherlock’s memory, but the sound was too faint to decipher, and he scanned the buildings, still trying to place the feeling of familiarity when John stopped in front of a red door, a wide window framed with small paper lantern lights set into the wall on the left.

“Wa-la!” he announced, waving a hand at the door, chuckling at Sherlock’s perplexed expression as he grabbed the handle, beckoning Sherlock ahead of him, a request he was more than happy to oblige, finally able to take a full breath as the warm air of the restaurant enveloped him.

It was, perhaps, a little overdone, paper lanterns and lucky cats winking and waving at them from every direction, the sort of thing Sherlock imagined had more to do with conforming to tourists’ expectations than genuine design preference, but it was obvious care had been put into the smaller elements—the dark hardwood floors and tables polished, the red upholstery on the chairs and booths free of stains and threadbare patches. The dining area was ahead of them, a narrow stretch lit with dim wall sconces and candles flickering on tables beneath a canopy of multicolored lantern lights, but there was a larger section by the window, a counter and handful of aluminum chairs set up against the wall to process takeaway orders, and Sherlock blinked, the hazy recollections finally coming into focus.

“Did we-”

John hummed, nodding as he looked out over the entryway. “After that first party at mine last year. You’d had a bit to drink”—he glanced up through his lashes, a corner of his mouth twitching as Sherlock cringed—“and nobody was going your way back toward Imperial, so you stayed over.”

“And we came here,” he murmured, the night coming back in warbled laughter and flashes of light, “to pick up takeaway.”

“Yep,” John confirmed, tucking his gloves into the pocket of his coat before turning to unbutton it. “It seemed appropriate. Full circle and all that.”

Sherlock smiled, the countless strings of paper lanterns paling in comparison to the glow building in his chest. “Full circle,” he echoed, voice reaching his own ears through a fog, and he shook his head, clearing it somewhat as he chuckled. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

“I-”

“Hello.” They turned to find the hostess had silently materialized in front of them, her long black hair tied up in a hasty bun, fatigue pulling at her eyes. “Two?”

“Yes, please,” John said, and the woman smiled, dropping a nod as she pulled two menus from the slot on the side of the hostess stand.

“Right this way,” she said, guiding them down the center aisle, branching off to the right when they reached the back of the restaurant. “Here you are.” She placed the menus on opposite sides of the small rectangular table, careful to avoid the cutlery already set up on white napkins. “Your server will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” John said, Sherlock nodding, and the woman gave them a last smile before retreating back toward the front of the restaurant. “Here,” John said, stepping aside to let Sherlock slide through to take the chair against the wall. “I know you like being able to look out,” he added in response to Sherlock’s questioning look, and Sherlock frowned, draping his coat over the back of the offered seat.

“I didn’t tell you that,” he said as he sat, John chuckling as he stripped off his peacoat.

“What?” he teased, hooking the coat on the chair and taking his seat. “I can’t  _ deduce _ too?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, a momentary glare for posterity’s sake, and then looked away, eyes sweeping over the row of empty tables stretching out from their corner, the rest of their fellow diners spread out in the front section of the restaurant.

“Maybe we look like trouble,” John suggested, reading his mind, and Sherlock chuckled.

“Maybe they think we’ll skip out on the check.”

John tipped his head, acknowledging the possibility, and then picked up his menu as a waiter approached, making a beeline for the drinks list.

“Good evening,” he said, John sparing a smile as the man filled the water glasses before returning to speed-reading. “I’m René, and I’ll be your server tonight. Do you have any questions, or can I start you off with anything to drink?”

“Um, I don’t think we have any questions yet,” John said, glancing at Sherlock to confirm, “but we’ll start with a bottle of the Riesling, please.”

“Certainly”—he dipped a nod—“I’ll get that right out.”

“Thank you,” John bade, turning away from the drinks menu as the man walked away, Sherlock’s brow raised by the time he looked up.

“Second cheapest option?” he supposed, a crooked smile gracing the blond’s face.

“Third.”

Sherlock flicked his brows, opening the menu and beginning to search through the options. “Fancy.”

“Special occasion,” John amended, and Sherlock’s gaze poked up through his lashes, breath catching as he watched the candle between them flickering in John’s eyes.

He cleared his throat, ducking his face back down into his menu and wishing the wine would hurry up, focusing on the poultry list instead of the fuzzy smirk he could see on John’s face in his peripheral vision.

“What are you thinking?” the man asked, and Sherlock shrugged, flipping another menu page.

“Noodles, probably. You?”

“Rice or soup.”

“Hmm.”

They lapsed into silence, broken only by the heavy plastic-coated menu pages slapping together, a knot of nerves tightening in Sherlock’s stomach as the tension thrummed in the air between them, and he jumped a little when John clapped his menu shut.

“Sorry,” the man murmured, setting his menu aside, hand and gaze hovering on the black vinyl cover. “Look,” he blurted, lifting his eyes, arms folding on the table as he leaned forward, the candle casting flickering shadows up his face, “if this is too weird, we can… I dunno, get takeaway and-and go home.”

“It’s not weird,” Sherlock said, sighing as John gave him a flat look. “Okay”—he closed his menu, positioning it at the corner of the table—“it’s a little weird, but- Well, I don’t think there’s any way to avoid that.” He shrugged, twisting at his water glass, the ice racing in circles around the edge. “Everything new seems strange until it’s normalized.”

John quirked a brow. “So you want to...normalize us?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning back into his chair. “Well, not in those-”

“I know what you meant,” John chuckled, shaking his head at Sherlock’s pursed lips. “So this is sort of like...immersion therapy.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock shrugged, and John nodded, eyes drifting up to the lights strung overhead, the corners of his eyes pinched the way they always did when he was puzzling something out.

“Right,” he said, seeming to confirm something to himself, gaze dropping to Sherlock as he leaned back, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, shoulders lowering with unwinding tension, “so, how was your exam?”

Sherlock groaned, John chuckling as he reached for his water glass. “I mean, it went fine-”

“Naturally.”

“-but she insisted no one leave until at  _ least _ the 45-minute mark.”

“So you were sitting there twiddling your thumbs for…?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Not bad.”

“She told me to  _ check _ my work,” Sherlock said, scandalized while John simply laughed at him.

“Yes, well, some people—not you, obviously—do make the occasional mistake.”

Sherlock scoffed, John shaking his head at him as the waiter appeared, two wine glasses and bottle in hand.

“Here you are,” he announced, Sherlock biting hard at the inside of his lip and avoiding eye contact while John played out the absurd scene of tasting the mouthful poured into the bottom of his glass, nodding as if something had been up for debate. René then filled both their glasses, placing the bottle near the edge of the table and glancing between them. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”

“Er,” John murmured, looking to Sherlock, who nodded, “I think we’re ready to order.”

“Excellent,” René said, pulling a pad of paper from a pocket of his black apron, John bobbing his head at Sherlock to go first, “what can I get you?”

“I’ll have the Singapore noodles,” he said, passing his menu up as the man finished writing.

“Singapore noodles. And for you, sir?”

“Can I get a bowl of the vegetable hot and sour soup?” He smiled as René nodded, holding his menu aloft, the server stacking it atop Sherlock’s and stowing the pad back in his apron.

“Great, I’ll get that right in, and someone should be out with prawn crackers shortly.”

“Thank you,” John said, being closer and therefore responsible for the pleasantries, and René disappeared with a smile and a nod, leaving them alone once more, the silence straining in that way it always did at a juncture of conversations. “Well, er, I suppose we should...” He trailed off, lifting his wine glass and wriggling it in the air, Sherlock raising his in answer, battling back a smirk. “To, um…something.”

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head at John’s helpless shrug. “To something,” he echoed, still chuckling as they clinked their glasses, Sherlock’s wine palate only so refined as to say it was fruity and dry, but also that he liked it.

It was probably the placebo effect, a few sips of alcohol hardly enough to make any real impact, but he nevertheless embraced the false comfort, clinking his glass onto the table and leaning forward. “So, how was your exam?”

John rolled his eyes, and so the tirade began, John’s professor apparently having an irritating penchant for far-too-specific textbook references. “I understand not wanting to give away too much in the question, but page numbers? Seriously?” he bemoaned, Sherlock chuckling around the lip of his glass. “If it’s not page 394, I don’t know what’s on it.”

“Page 394?”

“Werewolves,” John said with a solemn nod, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head, certain it was funny even if he didn’t understand it.

Another server appeared with a basket of prawn crackers and small dish of sweet chili sauce, dropping them onto the table and disappearing without a word, the two of them muttering their thanks to his retreating back.

“Tell me something,” John said, taking a sip of his wine as Sherlock reached into the basket, snapping a cracker in half and dipping a corner in the sauce.

“Like what?” He popped the cracker into his mouth, the porous puff crackling against his tongue as he crunched it down.

John shrugged. “I dunno, anything. Something I don’t know. That’s what first dates are for, aren’t they?” His wine glass waved in his hand, gesturing over the moment. “Getting to know each other?”

“You already know me.”

“Yes, but I only know one way to do this, so humor me.”

Sherlock smiled, a laugh hissing through his nose as John grabbed a cracker, tossing it into his mouth with a pointed  _ chomp _ . He propped an elbow up on the table, balancing his chin on a fist as he thought, a sconce on the adjacent wall growing fuzzy in his unfocused gaze. “My right leg’s a little longer than my left,” he offered, and John chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, not- Something like...I dunno, what did you wanna be when you were little?”

“A pirate,” Sherlock answered without hesitation, and John blinked at him, dopey smile stretching across his face. “What?” he muttered, John rattling his head as he plucked another prawn cracker from the pile.

“Nothing, it’s just...not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, swiping up a dollop of sauce. “Something more...sciencey. Like an astronaut.”

“God, no,” Sherlock urged, pausing in shaking his head to take a sip of wine. “Floating around in the desolate vacuum of space? Absolutely not.”

“Rather stick to pillaging down here on terra firma?”

“Precisely. Except on the water.”

“What if you could be a pirate  _ in _ space?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, quirking a single questioning brow at John’s blithe smile. “Are you taking the piss?”

He chuckled, his foot stretching out to knock Sherlock’s calf, and then lingered, shoe pressing against the side of Sherlock’s beneath the table. “Only a little,” he murmured, sitting up straight to fold his arms on the edge of the table. “Okay, your turn.”

“For what?” Sherlock asked, forcing himself to focus on John’s mouth and not the foot tapping a seemingly subconscious rhythm against his own.

“To ask me something.” He smiled, body shifting in his seat, and Sherlock could no longer question the intentionality as John’s left foot bumped against his ankle, sandwiching Sherlock’s right foot in place.

“Er,” Sherlock murmured, clearing his throat as it went dry, reaching for his wine to buy time, the muscles in his leg spasming in his sudden determination not to move. “What-What did you wanna be when you were little?” he blurted, John’s smile crooked and smug and  _ horrendously _ unfair.

“A fireman,” he replied, which was just what Sherlock needed right now, and he clenched his jaw, holding back the wheeze of his soul abandoning his body. “Though mostly for the dalmatians, if I’m being honest. Mum’s allergic to dogs,” he added by way of explanation, Sherlock nodding down at the table, gathering himself.

“We had a dog when I was a kid,” he said, eyes stuttering through a blink as the toe of John’s shoe scraped up over the edge of his oxfords, brushing against his sock. “Irish setter. I named him Redbeard.”

“Your first mate?”

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, smiling as he lifted another cracker to his lips. “Better him than Mycroft,” he grumbled, eating as John laughed.

“God, I can’t imagine Mycroft as a kid,” John mused, sliding forward on his chair, their ankles brushing as his right foot moved in tandem. “He seems like he just popped into existence—twenty-something and looking disapproving.” He wrinkled his face, exaggerating the expression, and Sherlock laughed, inadvertently bumping their ankles together.

“Well, he was a kid,” Sherlock assured, pausing for a swallow of wine, “and a fat one at that.”

“No!?” John gasped, cackling as Sherlock nodded.

“It’s true, my mother had to get low-carb cookbooks.” He smiled, watching John bow forward with laughter, clutching his stomach and gasping for air, wiping at the corners of his eyes as he reached for his water with a heaving sigh.

“Wow,” he panted, shaking his head as he swallowed, “that’s-  _ Wow _ .” He chuckled again, switching to wine. “Don’t suppose you have any pictures.”

“Not on me.”

“Pity,” John said, lips curling around the lip of his glass as Sherlock chuckled. “What about you?” he asked, nudging Sherlock’s ankle with his own.

“What about me?”

“Did you hold onto some baby fat?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on,” John teased, lightly batting against either side of Sherlock’s foot while he buried his pinkening face in his wine glass. “Not even a little? There’s no shame in chubby cheeks.”

Sherlock snorted, coughing wine out of the wrong pipe, and John chuckled, picking up his own glass and leaning back in his chair, relinquishing the assault.

“I’ll find out someday,” he mused, eyes glinting with mischief. “Sort of a tradition, isn’t it? Mocking the significant other’s baby pictures.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock admitted with a shrug, John pausing a moment before swallowing, twitching a shoulder as he replaced his now empty glass on the table.

“Come to think of it,” he murmured, reaching for the bottle, Sherlock draining his glass while John refilled his own, “neither would I.”

Sherlock watched the wine pour into his glass, John shifting back and forth through the last few ounces to ensure their glasses were almost even, a question he wasn’t sure how to ask growing heavy on the tip of his tongue.

“Care to share with the class?” John asked, smiling when Sherlock blinked out of his trance. “You drifted off there for a minute.”

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured, rattling his head, twisting at the stem of his glass, “sorry.”

“Don’t be,” John assured, one elbow resting on the table as he leaned in, “but you can still share with the class.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, a fragile attempt at amusement that only served to make John look concerned, and he took a deep breath, supposing he’d gone too far now to play it off. “I was just...wondering… If-If you even know, I mean, you don’t  _ have _ to answer; I probably shouldn’t even-”

“Sherlock.”

“Why now?” Sherlock blurted before he could talk himself out of it, John blinking as if he’d been expecting something else. “Not that I- I’m not  _ complaining _ , I just- I’m curious.”

“No, it’s- it’s a fair question,” John murmured, taking a larger-than-average sip of his wine, “and the truth is...I meant to do it sooner.” He shrugged a shoulder, smiling even though the edges were taut with nerves. “That’s sort of why I thought of this place”—he lifted his left hand to flick a wave over his shoulder—“because I almost- Well, I don’t know exactly,” he muttered shaking his head, “but I didn’t, because we’d been drinking and only friends for a few months and whatever else I came up with, and then, once you talk yourself out of something once...well, it’s just easier to keep doing it, ya know?” He watched Sherlock’s face, waiting for him to nod before continuing. “I suppose- And I didn’t  _ mean _ anything by it, mind you, but I thought...I had time. But then you were with Victor, and you  _ stayed _ with Victor, and I couldn’t be  _ that guy _ and say something then, so I just sort of… Not  _ waited _ , but- Well, I guess it was waiting, but it was also trying  _ not _ to wait, if that makes any sense.”

Sherlock chuckled, nodding his understanding as John smiled.

“So, when you...weren’t...with him...anymore,” he said slowly, gauging Sherlock’s nonexistent reaction with every added word, “and Irene started talking about you ‘getting back out there’, I realized- Well, there isn’t time, is there? Not in a dying way- I mean, that too, I suppose—people do  _ die _ , after all—but it wasn’t my primary- ...Can I start over?”

Sherlock laughed, lifting the backs of his fingers to cover the worst of it as John blushed scarlet. “No,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean, you  _ can _ , of course, but you don’t need to.” He smiled, giving John’s wary expression a solemn nod. “I understand.”

John held his eyes a moment longer, expression waffling between skepticism and pouting, and then smiled, clamping down on Sherlock’s foot as he leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “What about you, then?” he asked, Sherlock’s neck paining from the whiplash as he made an about-face to debonair. “You’ve gotten off awfully easy in the embarrassing confessions department. Why didn’t  _ you _ say something sooner?”

He chuckled, shrugging a single shoulder. “Simple,” he said, “you were always with someone else.”

John blinked, mouth opening in apparent rebuttal, and then closed his lips, thought creasing his brow a moment before he puffed a laugh. “I guess I was,” he murmured, swirling his wine, a pained smile pinching his face when he looked up. “Kind of shot myself in the foot with that one, didn’t I?”

Sherlock laughed, John smiling around a drink as he watched, and then René appeared with their food, asking if they needed anything else before vanishing back into the ether with a smile.

The conversation was sprinkled around bites and sips after that, the alcohol becoming more than just a placebo at some point, and Sherlock’s nerves were lubricated just enough to embolden him to creep his foot across the floor, bookending their alternating pattern of trainers and oxfords, John raising a pointed brow while Sherlock became very interested in rearranging his noodles. They declined dessert, splitting the check down the middle at Sherlock’s express insistence—and hard stomp to John’s foot—and then ambled out of the restaurant, Sherlock blushing with wine and flustered joy as their arms and sides bumped in the narrow passage between tables.

Even with the whole pavement at their disposal, however, John stayed close, arm bumping Sherlock’s as it swung, bare hand hanging while Sherlock’s were tucked into his pockets. At least, until John’s fingers hooked onto the cuff of his sleeve, the tug unmistakable, and Sherlock nearly drew blood as he bit his lip around a sound he was sure he didn’t want to make, sliding his hand free of the fabric and into John’s waiting grasp.

John’s skin was rough, dry on the pads of his palm, but warm, his fingers sliding between Sherlock’s with gentle indecision, the grip tentative at first, and then strengthened with a small exhale of determined breath, their palms pressed tight together.

They jostled a little, instinctively working out the rhythm of their steps, but did not speak, Sherlock no longer able to even see beyond silhouettes and flares of light, hoping John would stop him if he was on a collision course with a lamppost. It was beyond comprehension, beyond description, beyond every form of study or measurement available to the human mind, and certainly beyond Sherlock, his stream of consciousness an exultant frenzy of skin and warmth and Chinese food, leaving no room for filters, which was how he found himself snorting with laughter, shoulders shaking as he fought to keep the rest from bursting forth.

“Nice,” John muttered, and he couldn’t help it, throat breaking open with almost hysterical guffaws. “You know, you’re really doing wonders for my ego. First getting sick, now  _ laughing _ .”

“It’s not- It’s not  _ you _ ,” Sherlock gasped, lifting his free hand to his chest and then mouth, trying to smother the sound. “I just-”

“Had two too many glasses of wine?”

“No, I’m not- I’m not drunk,” he assured, laughter dying with the sincerity, and he turned to John, looking him firm in the eyes as he shook his head. “I’m just- I don’t know.” The breathy words smoked from his mouth, swept away by a gust of wind that tickled at the flapping edges of his coat. “It’s all so...”

“Weird?”

“Absurd,” Sherlock corrected, though John didn’t seem to recognize the distinction, his grip on Sherlock’s hand slackening, urging Sherlock quickly on. “In the most Oxford-English-dictionary sense of the word.”

John frowned, his resolve to be offended seemingly wavering. “Meaning?”

“It’s...illogical, it’s senseless, it...defies all reason or common sense!”

“Thanks, Webster.”

“I mean,” Sherlock said, purposefully slowing, John forced to linger alongside him by their interconnected digits, “that it seems impossible. And the impossible is...”

“Funny?”

“Terrifying.” He looked straight ahead, shaking his head at the pavement beyond, unable to meet John’s eyes he could see piercing the side of his face in his peripheral vision. “It’s terrifying,” he murmured, taking in a deep breath and shuddering it out, and John tightened his grip, pinching Sherlock’s fingers between his own so tight, it might have been uncomfortable if Sherlock hadn’t needed it to ground him.

“I know,” John said, something in his tone telling Sherlock that all the squirming in his stomach could not hold a candle to one-tenth of John’s anxiety, “but that’s the fun part. Isn’t it?”

Sherlock glanced up, finding a genuine question in John’s eyes, lost and searching, and he smiled, confident enough for the both of them, if he had to be. “Yeah,” he breathed, squeezing back against John’s hand, a streetlamp overhead catching in his bright blue eyes like a lighthouse scanning over the swirling sea, “I suppose it is.”

John watching him a moment, as if expecting him to take the whole thing back with another bout of giggling, and then smiled, ducking his blushing face and nudging Sherlock hard on the arm. “Git,” he mumbled, and Sherlock chuckled, elbowing him back, but said nothing, the silence stretching as they neared the steps of 221B. “You know,” John said, dawdling in pulling out his key, stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s skin to leave a singed trailed in its wake, “I think we’re even now. As far as embarrassing confessions go.”

Sherlock laughed, reluctant to release John’s hand, but they had to get into the flat somehow, and he allowed John’s fingers to slip away, turning the handle and pushing into the foyer, Sherlock hot on his heels into the warmth. Closing the door behind him, he turned to find John unbuttoning his peacoat, sliding the fabric down from his shoulders and hanging it up on the hook, a hand lifting to brush flat the folds wrinkled into the front of his jumper. Sherlock opened his mouth, but embarrassment stayed his tongue, and he walked around John’s back, unwinding his scarf and hanging his coat beside the shorter blue one. His fingers hovered on the grey-flecked wool, eyes blinking at the hazy pattern of the wallpaper as he thought, and then sucked in a breath, steeling himself for the greater good.

“You look nice too,” he blurted, and John turned, expression wobbling between confusion and pleasant surprise while Sherlock’s cheeks caught fire. He cleared his throat, moving past the man to the base of the stairs, hand lifting to the railing, though his eyes remained glued to the floor. “Now we’re even,” he muttered, and then took off up the stairs, vaulting them two at a time as John laughed at his back. His immediate instinct was to run into his room and slam the door, but it was early still, embarrassment hardly a good enough reason to cut an otherwise flawless first date short, so he shuffled into the kitchen, putting the kettle on to busy his hands.

“I’m gonna get changed,” John called from the corridor, his smirking face popping in around the doorframe. “Probably won’t look as  _ nice _ though.”

Sherlock plucked a sweet from the bowl on the counter, whipping around and chucking it at the man, but John ducked out of the way, the confection ricocheting off the wall to roll under the kitchen table. He shook his head, glaring at the ceiling toward John’s ascending chuckle, and then retrieved the sweet, blowing a bit of dust from the wrapper and replacing it in the dish. He glanced at the kettle, still some time from boiling, and left for his own room, no sense remaining in his date-wear if John was going to be comfortable. Not that it was much easier picking casual clothes, face burning as he picked through the threadbare and horrendously patterned pajama trousers—Irene’s gag gift of choice—he was now ashamed John had seen him in, but he managed to throw together something presentable: a blue plaid pair of flannel trousers and John’s rugby hoodie he had unofficially confiscated. The whistling kettle summoned him from the room, sending him scampering down the corridor, but the sound broke off as he slid through the doorway, John already there in grey sweatpants and a loose blue t-shirt.

“I was wondering where that got off to,” he said, nodding at his hoodie on Sherlock’s body before turning away to the cupboard, removing their Dalek mugs. “Coffee or tea?”

“Er, tea,” Sherlock murmured, picking at the fabric over his chest and shuffling closer. “Do you want it back?”

“Right now?” He glanced up through his lashes, flashing Sherlock’s startled face a smirk before shaking his head, returning focus to the scalding water. “No. Like I said, it doesn’t fit.”

Sherlock nodded, leaning against the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he watched John finish their drinks, John handing him his first before cradling his own to his lips, slurping at the top of the steaming liquid.

“Shall we adjourn to the living room?” John asked, nodding to the glass doors, and Sherlock chuckled, following after as he led the procession to the sofa. He lowered his tea to the coffee table before collapsing onto the cushions with a sigh, closing his eyes as he rolled his head toward the ceiling, Sherlock smiling as he gingerly settled down beside him. “Long day,” he gusted, eyes still shut as he shook his head against the worn leather.

“Monday,” Sherlock replied, John humming in agreement, and then startling with a gasp as Sherlock crossed his legs on the cushion, bare foot resting against John’s thigh.

“Fucking hell, your feet are  _ freezing _ !” he bleated, tugging at the blanket over the back of the sofa and tossing it across Sherlock’s lap, fussing with the corners as he tucked them in around the appendages. “Were you not wearing socks?”

“Poor circulation,” Sherlock supplied, shrugging a shoulder and reaching for his tea when John leaned out of the way. “My mum has it too.”

John’s eyes narrowed sharply, and Sherlock froze, afraid to so much as lift his drift to his lips under such shrewd examination. “Do you have a family history of high blood pressure?”

“Um, I don’t think-”

“High cholesterol?”

“Not that I-”

“Diabetes?”

“Only my grandfather, I think.”

John leaned closer, Sherlock leaning the same measure back as he scanned between his eyes. “Do you experience frequent fatigue? Blurred vision? Headaches?”

“Er-”

“Dry mouth? Sudden weight loss?”

“I don’t have diabetes.”

“Frequent urination or urinary infections?”

“I- Is this how you end all your first dates?” he muttered, eager to move the topic away from infections, John now leaning so close, Sherlock was in danger of toppling off the sofa trying to maintain distance. “Because family medical history seems like more of a third-date conversation.”

John sneered, but did pull away, a smile ghosting at his lips as he reached for his tea. “Sorry,” he murmured around the mug. “Few too many hours in the library.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head to indicate no harm was done. “I imagine we’re all feeling that way this week,” he said, and John hummed in thoughtful agreement.

“Oh, that reminds me,” he chimed, balancing his cup in his lap, “how was coffee?”

Sherlock blinked, a still frame of that morning’s intervention blazing in front of his eyes. “Coffee?” he squeaked, feigning ignorance and gaining a precious few seconds, drawing in a mouthful of tea as John nodded.

“Yeah, this morning. With Irene.”

He swallowed, bowing his face and slotting his mug in a spare space within his tangle of limbs. “Oh, right. Coffee. It was...interesting.”

“How do you mean?” John asked, the leather squeaking as he turned to better face him.

“Well...Molly showed up,” he began, gaze flicking between John and the shifting surface of his tea, “and then Mary”—John lifted a brow—“and then Mike and Greg.”

“What?!” John spluttered, hissing as a few drops of tea slopped over the side, splattering his thigh. “Mike and Greg? What-What were they doing there?”

“They were curious,” he explained, shrugging a shoulder, trying to tip John back from the edge of righteous indignation. “They all got talking after we left Molly’s. Guess they wanted to hear the details from the source.”

“Well they should’ve asked me,” John snapped, glowering at the innocent coffee table, “instead of ganging up on you like that.”

“I didn’t mind.” He smiled at John’s surprise, shoulders lifting as he dropped his eyes, fidgeting with the handle of the cup in his lap. “It was...nice. In a way.” He glanced up, finding John’s expression still confused, and swallowed, searching for the right phrase. “I-I’m not used to...having friends. Not that many, anyway,” he muttered, shrugging the shoulder closest to the man, a futile shield over the inherent fragility of confession. “It was...surprising.”

“Why?” John asked, and Sherlock huffed a laugh for no real reason, shaking his head.

“I don’t know,” he chuckled. “I mean, Irene and Molly weren’t much of a shock, but Mary and-and Mike and Greg...” He trailed off, looking down at the carpet below the lip of the cushion. “I just...didn’t think they would care. Not that much, anyway.”

“Why not?” John shuffled closer, moving his tea to the table, a nonverbal sign that Sherlock wasn’t getting out of this any time soon. “I mean, Mary, I understand, but you’ve known Mike longer than I have, and Greg’s always liked you.”

“He has?” Sherlock asked, blinking in befuddlement when John nodded.

“Of course! Why do you think he put up with you calling him Gavin for the first three months?”

“I did?”

“You did,” John confirmed, chuckling when Sherlock bit his lip in shame. “So, two down, what about Mike?”

“What about him?”

“You went to secondary school together,” John urged, rolling his eyes when Sherlock only frowned. “Well, I only met him when he started at Barts. If anything, he’d be more your friend than mine, if we were divvying them up.”

“We lost touch when he graduated,” Sherlock said, remembering how empty the school halls had felt that final year, opening Mike’s texts becoming more like opening wounds as the months wore on, easier to delete than answer honestly, “and then he got into rugby and met you and Greg.”

“That doesn’t mean you two stopped being friends.”

“Well, I know that  _ now _ ,” he scoffed, narrowing his eyes at John’s raised brow. “I was just surprised they came, is all.”

“And it was nice.”

“It was not as unpleasant as I would’ve anticipated.”

“Too late, you already said it was nice,” John chirped, ignoring Sherlock’s glare boring into the side of his face and reaching forward to grab the remote, the TV flickering to life, John muting the news so as to scroll through the guide in peace. “You’re saying  _ lots _ of things are nice tonight,” he crooned, smirking with a sidelong glance, Sherlock valiantly scowling through a blush.

“Well, now I’m taking them back,” he sniffed, swiping the remote from John’s hand, and the blond chuckled, folding his arms, seemingly unconcerned.

“All of them?”

“No.” He shook his head, hunting an intelligent needle in the haystack of prime time television drivel. “Mike is still nice. You’re not.”

“You didn’t say I  _ was _ nice,” John purred, Sherlock’s vision blurring for a blink, “you said I  _ looked _ nice.”

“I’m taking  _ that _ back, then,” he groused, but John only chuckled, reaching across and pulling the remote from Sherlock’s grasp as easily as if he hadn’t been trying to hold onto it at all.

“Yes, dear,” he said, Sherlock’s heart not seeming to read the patronization as it skipped a beat. “But, for the record”—he selected  _ Coronation Street _ , Sherlock’s protest withering in his throat as John’s eyes turned on him, brilliant blue and alight with mirth—“I still think  _ you _ look nice.”

He clenched his jaw, fighting tooth and nail to hold a flat expression, but it was no use, his mouth cracking with a smile as John laughed through a sharp elbow to the side. “Idiot,” he muttered, stomach lurching as John’s fingers found his in the dark, a silent rebuttal, and Sherlock settled back into the sofa, content, if only just this once, to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting a couple-ish smaller chapters, and then there may be a bit of a gap (a week/week and change) while I write what will amount to the rest of the fic, as the only logical place to break it would mean a cliffhanger, and I don't want to leave you guys sitting with that for more than a day or two.
> 
> Also, if you haven't seen that episode of Top Gear, go get a laughter ab workout right now.

Too much light filtered through Sherlock’s eyelids, his fingers twitching against a cool firm surface, and he frowned, creeping one eye open and blinking his surroundings into focus. The sideways image of the living room met his gaze, grey morning light pouring in the windows, and he was seized with a yawn, wincing as his cheek pulled away from the leather sofa. The blanket that had been tucked around him slipped down from his shoulders as he pushed up onto an elbow, running the opposite hand through his sleep-crumpled hair, a sound in the kitchen doorway drawing his attention.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” John said, chuckling when Sherlock groaned, the sound turning more amicable as a plate of toast clicked onto the table in front of him. “I was just about to wake you.”

Sherlock hummed, reaching forward to snap up one of the triangles, John hovering on the opposite side of the coffee table, a fond smile plucking at his lips.

“You fell asleep about halfway through _Top Gear_.”

“The three-wheeled car,” Sherlock murmured, distorted images from his last few seconds of consciousness coming back to him. “How’d that work out?”

“Poorly,” John said, smiling at the memory Sherlock was sorry not to share. “Thought I might wake you up laughing though.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmured, dropping his face to his lap, but John shook his head, dismissing the contrition with a wave of his hand as he turned away.

“Don’t be. You were tired.” He shrugged, disappearing into the kitchen. “You just have the one exam today, right?”

Sherlock swallowed, clearing his throat. “Yeah, this afternoon. And you have two?”

“Yep!” John confirmed, beaming with false optimism as he reappeared in the corridor, a piece of toast clasped in his hand. “Here’s hoping all those fun Black Death facts you’ve been throwing around stuck.”

Sherlock blushed, shifting his weight on the sofa. “I never said they were _fun_ ,” he murmured, and John laughed, temporarily holding his toast in his mouth as he shoved a notebook into his bag.

“I’ll be back later. Order in?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded, John flashing a grin and a salute before heading down the stairs, but stopped after just a few steps, turning back to look at him over the horizon of the landing. “Oh, and...I had a great time last night,” he said, smile shifting to a smirk while Sherlock blushed and blinked, “until you started snoring.”

“I-I do _not_ -”

“Laters!” John shouted from the base of the stairs, and Sherlock grabbed a pillow from the sofa, chucking it blindly out the door, John’s answering laugh suggesting a miss.

He heard the front door open, muffled voices he assumed were John and Mrs. Hudson passing in the night, but then heel clicks started up the stairs toward him, sharper than the landlady's usual gait. His pillow came rocketing back toward him, and he snatched it out of the air, tucking it to his chest as a figure rose into the doorway.

“Yours, I presume,” Irene said, wriggling one of the cups from the cardboard tray in her left hand as she approached, passing it down to him and perching on the edge of the coffee table.

Sherlock frowned between the beverage and her eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked, taking the drink, though he did give it a wary sniff before imbibing.

Irene quirked a brow, pausing mid-sip of what smelled to be a latte. “Isn’t it obvious?” She smiled, shaking her head at Sherlock’s continued confusion. “I wanted to pry into your personal life. So”—she swept up, flopping down onto the sofa beside him and crossing her legs, nearly slopping his coffee in the process—“how was the _date_?”

Sherlock averted his face, taking a long drink and swallowing slowly. “Fine,” he mumbled, and Irene elbowed him hard on the arm, though thankfully not the one holding hot liquids.

“Don’t give me that ‘fine’ shit; I want details! Where did you go, for starters?”

“Chinese place down the road,” Sherlock replied, and then smiled, unable to stop himself, even for the sake of torturing Irene. “Do you remember the first party we had here? Early last year, I think?”

Irene nodded.

“Well, remember how I stayed over?”

She nodded again, brows rising.

“It was late, and we got hungry, so we found the closest place still open and got takeaway. From that Chinese restaurant.”

Irene blinked, lowering her coffee to her lap. “Oh my god,” she deadpanned, “I think I might be sick.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head as Irene pretended to dry heave.

“Okay,” she continued, gathering herself with a sip of coffee, “so how was the trip down suppressed sexuality lane?”

His flat look was returned with a wink. “It was...nice,” he murmured, shrugging a shoulder, running a finger around the edge of the white snap-on lid.

“Nice?” Irene parroted, rolling her eyes. “‘Nice’, ‘fine’, what are you, running for office? I want _specifics_!”

“Like what?”

“Like how you ended up in his clothes.” She flicked a glance down at the logo on Sherlock’s hoodie, Sherlock instinctively ducking his chin and plucking at the fabric.

“Oh, no, this is mine,” he said, shaking his head at Irene’s frown. “I mean, obviously, it was John’s _first_ , but he gave it to me when I moved in. Sorry to disappoint,” he chuckled as Irene groaned, tipping her face back to the ceiling.

“Did _anything_ fun happen last night? _Anything_?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the floor, teeth digging into the corner of his lip. “Well-”

“That’s more like it,” Irene muttered, folding her legs under her and shimmying deeper into the sofa cushions.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ _Well_ ,” he restated pointedly, Irene sucking her lips in over her teeth to indicate silence, “on the way back...and then later too...we sort of...” He lifted his hands in front of him, palms bouncing together as he bobbed his interlaced fingers back and forth.

Irene tilted her head, squinting at the gesture. “Dry-humped?”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped as he turned his palms up to his blinking eyes, scanning between the innocent appendages. “Wha- _No_ !” he trumpeted, shaking his head violently. “How did you even- Holding hands!” He laced his two hands together, shaking the conglomerate in the woman’s face. “This is obviously- Where the hell did you get... _that_?”

“I dunno,” Irene shrugged, unconcerned by his near-death experience, “it looked like bumping nasties to me. So you held hands?”

“Yes!” Sherlock blustered, a little embarrassment starting to creep into the outrage, heat tickling at the collar of John’s sweatshirt.

“For the first time?”

“Well...yes. I think,” Sherlock muttered, nibbling at his cheek as he thought. “I don’t suppose doing a wave counts.”

“A wave?”

“At Molly’s tennis match last spring.”

“ _The_ wave.”

“If that’s the article you’re more comfortable with.”

Irene laughed, shaking her head in a fond way that told him he’d missed yet another joke he was the butt of. “Well, that’s good. At least, I’m assuming it was good,” she muttered, leaning back, hands and latte lifted in the air between them. “No sweaty palms? Festering boils? Warts on warts on-” She laughed as Sherlock nudged her, rocking back on her hips before regaining her balance. “So, you held hands,” she summated, brushing a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “Then what?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Watched TV. I fell asleep at some point.”

Irene watched him, brow creasing in the stretching silence.

“What?” he asked, and the woman leaned forward, resting her coffee against her ankle.

“You mean, that’s all you did? Hold hands?” she questioned, and Sherlock blushed, nodding at the carpet to confirm. “Not even- Have you even _kissed_ yet?”

He scratched at the back of his neck, looking out the window. “We- Well, we might’ve done,” he muttered, “if I hadn’t fallen asleep.”

“Sherlock!”

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it!?” he bleated, throwing his free hand out to the side, a gesture Irene promptly mimicked.

“Kiss _him_?” she suggested as if it were a plausible course of action, Sherlock letting out a strangled laugh.

“Er, no,” he muttered, shaking his head so rapidly, his eyes rattled in their sockets. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I- I can’t.” He hissed a frustrated sigh over the lid of his coffee, drawing in a mouthful, the bitter warmth steadying him. “It’s too- And, anyway, he wanted to take it slow.”

“There’s slow, and then there’s cold showers,” Irene muttered, lifting her brows as he scowled. “Look, if you wanna kiss him, just kiss him!” she urged, lifting her latte in support of her own proclamation. “Take the leap! It’s never as scary as you think it’ll be. Like, okay, say I’m John-”

“No, thank you.”

“-and we’re sitting here-”

“Any amount of money not to finish this sentence.”

“-in the dark-”

“I want an Irish coffee.”

“-with some wine-”

“Two Irish coffees.”

“-and I just _happen_ to have my arm on the back of the sofa-”

“On second thought, I’ll just drink bleach.”

Irene laughed, pulling her arm away to thwack him on the back of the head. “My _point_ is,” she said, pausing for a drink, “that somebody has to do it. Might as well be you.”

“Well, it won’t be,” Sherlock asserted, rising to standing, the empty blanket pooling on his abandoned seat. “Some things are best left to the experts.”

“Like kissing?”

“And plumbing,” Sherlock rejoined with a nod, Irene rolling her eyes. “Now, get out.” He tossed his free hand at the door, lifting his coffee to his lips with the other. “I have to shower.”

“Oh, no, we’re not done,” Irene said, standing and stomping the few steps to his side. “That was just the overview. Now I need the play-by-play.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, starting toward the bathroom. “Text me.”

“You won’t reply.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He stepped onto the tile, turning to close the door behind him, but Irene lodged herself in the doorframe, the door bouncing uselessly against her arm.

“I’ll just stand out here and wait for you,” she said, and Sherlock knew better than to consider it an empty threat, one of the early fights he’d had with Victor resulting in the same treatment. “Shout things through the door. How well do you want to know your neighbors, asking for a friend?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, the woman smiling with venomous innocence, and then huffed, swinging the door open and clicking his coffee down on the vanity. “Fine,” he grumbled, pulling John’s sweatshirt over his head and hanging it on the back of the door, Irene somehow managing to skip through the narrow passage to the toilet, folding her ankles up onto the lid, “but, if you pull that flush again, I’m dragging you and your cashmere in here with me.”

“Promises, promises,” Irene sighed around the mouth of her coffee cup, and then rolled her eyes to Sherlock’s unrelenting glare, lifting two fingers in an oath he doubted she had the credentials to back up.

With one last narrowing of his eyes, he untied the string on his pajama trousers, giving the woman a pointed look until she dropped her chin, lifting a hand to her face.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she muttered, Sherlock’s glare hopefully going unobserved as he stepped out of his pants and trousers.

“On accident.” He slipped past the curtain, pulling it tight around the edges, and then twisted on the water, hugging the wall as it heated up. “And, if someone would learn to knock-”

“Or lock their door,” Irene interjected, voice clearer now, her head obviously lifted. “So,” she started before he could retort, “what was he wearing?”

Sherlock stuck his face into the spray with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read much of my stuff, I'm sorry about this. If you have, you already know I'm an asshole and did this to yourself anyway, so congrats on your masochism kink I guess??

By the time Sherlock popped up from the Baker Street tube station, it had started to snow, thick wet clumps raining down from the dark winter sky, and he pulled his collar up for feeble protection, shuddering as one of the icy flakes slipped past his scarf to melt against his neck. Running the last stretch to 221B, he lurched into the foyer, stomping his shoes on the coir mat inside the door and rattling snow from his curls as Mrs. Hudson’s door swung open.

“Oh, good, you’re home,” she said, hands wringing in front of her chest as she approached. “I always worry when there’s a storm, and they say this one’s going to be especially bad,  _ total _ whiteout.”

Sherlock unwrapped his scarf, looping it around the hook, his coat following. “It’s not that bad.”

“Yet,” Mrs. Hudson rejoined, waggling a finger at him, and then stretched her hand out to brush a few lingering snowflakes from his hair. “It’s supposed to pick up as the night goes on.”

Sherlock hummed, not intending on venturing out for the remainder of the evening regardless. “Is John back?” he asked, glancing up the stairs, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“No, I was hoping he’d be with you.”

“He had two exams today,” he explained, cupping his hands together and puffing warmth into the cavity, “but he shouldn’t be too much longer,” he added at the woman’s anxious expression, teeth rubbing at her lip as she watched the door.

“You boys could call, you know,” she snapped, worry manifesting as frustration. “I’m not a young woman. Who knows what the stress is doing to my heart?”

Sherlock took the scolding in stride, smiling as he lifted his hands to the woman’s shoulders. “Your heart is fine,” he assured, fighting off a chuckle as she glared up at him, “and you still look plenty young to me.”

Her irritable composure cracked, and she smiled, shaking her head. “Oh, you,” she muttered, patting his cheek, pinching lightly at the skin before swatting his arms away. “Stop chatting me up and get upstairs,” she fussed. “Your face is  _ frozen _ ! I lit a fire, but it may need a fresh log.”

“Alright,” he obeyed, marching toward the stairs, “and thank you.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson replied, turning to her flat as he began to climb. “Oh”—he stopped, looking over the banister as she twisted back—“one more thing.”

He tilted his head expectantly, the woman stepping closer to the stairs, her smile growing dewy.

“I just wanted to say how _ thrilled _ I am that you and John have finally sorted yourselves out.”

Sherlock’s spine shocked straight, his fingers tingling with sudden numbness.

“I was beginning to think I’d be dead and buried before you got around to it—only as an expression, of course; you know I want to be cremated—but I do wish you’d held out a  _ little _ longer.” She shook her head, sighing heavily. “After New Year’s and I’d’ve won the pool.”

“The- The pool?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, unabashed by Sherlock’s appalled expression. “With Mrs. Turner and the lads at Speedy’s. At least they won and not her,” she grumbled, narrowing her eyes at the shared wall. “Lord knows I’d take a  _ bullet _ for the woman, but she can be a bit smug. Anyway”—she flipped a hand in the air, batting away the asides and refocusing her smile on him—“just wanted you to know!” She turned on her heels with a flounce, humming happily to herself as she walked back to her flat, closing the door to leave Sherlock blinking at the barrier.

Realizing his mouth was open, he pressed it shut, frowning at the walls in search of an explanation, and then thought it best to forget the majority of the exchange, rattling his head and concluding his climb up the steps.

The fire was indeed fading, and he tossed another log onto the waning flames, stoking the embers with a poker before retreating to his room to change. At risk of looking disgusting, he put on John’s rugby sweatshirt again, the lingering odor of his shower from that morning still clinging to the fabric, allowing him the delusion that it had been washed, but the trousers were clean—grey sweatpants he’d had long enough to have lost the drawstring, but rolling the elastic waistband worked just as well.

He padded soundlessly into the kitchen, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove, and then curled up on one of the chairs, slipping his thumbs through the worn holes in the cuffs while he waited for the telltale whistle. Staring out the tiny kitchen window, he watched the snow swirling past the glass, the white flakes growing denser by the second, and hugged his knees tighter to his chest, a sympathetic chill running through him. He glanced at the clock on the microwave, calculating John’s average exam time and possible travel delays, and concluded he had at least twenty minutes to himself, forty before he would allow himself to worry, and an hour before he’d be justified in sending a text. Twiddling his thumbs, he looked back to the window, allowing his thoughts to drift with the tumbling snow, dropping his chin to rest atop a kneecap.

‘ _Take the leap!_ ’ Irene’s voice played in his head, just as it had all day, his eyes fixing on the same exam question for minutes at a time. ‘ _It’s never as scary as you think it’ll be._ ’

He sighed, shaking his head at the sentiment. He didn’t doubt Irene was right, but he was equally certain she had underestimated just how scared he truly  _ was _ , thus making not  _ as _ scary still well within the bounds of terrifying. However much Sherlock didn’t like thinking about it, he knew John had more experience. Not that he begrudged him any of it, but it did put them on rather unequal footing when it came to prowess, and Sherlock had it on the only authority available to him that he was...less than noteworthy in the physical intimacy department.

He frowned, rattling his head, dismissing the thought and scolding himself for the invention of it.

John was the furthest it was possible to be from Victor while remaining in the human species. He wouldn’t mock him, every interaction peppered with belittling remarks and critiques. He wouldn’t think any less of him for his inexperience, insufferably infantilizing as he turned every occurrence into a teaching moment. There was a time and a place and a  _ method _ for these sorts of things, and he had no doubt John would observe the unspoken decorum of the sensitive subject, but that didn’t make it any easier to broach, and Sherlock would rather stay wanting than rush in and ruin it. He’d never initiated anything like this, too nervous or distracted or simply uninterested to care before, and, even now that the thoughts of kissing and touching and feeling and  _ kissing  _ consumed his every moment, waking or otherwise, he couldn’t overcome the conditioning of crippling doubt.

What if he wasn’t enough for John either?

The kettle began hissing, just working itself into a full-blown whistle when Sherlock reached it, twisting off the burner and carrying the kettle with him to the cupboard, pulling down a mug and teabag one-handed before adding water and returning the ancient metal contraption to its home. Staring down into the darkening depths of his cup, his mind once again tugged at the end of its leash, scrabbling at the perimeter, but he reined it in, pulling a spoon from the drawer and poking at the steeping bag.

If something happened, it happened. And he’d panic about it then.

Dropping the teabag into the bin, he pulled the honey down from the cupboard, twisting a single swirl into the cup and stirring, blowing across the steaming surface as he shuffled into the living room. He lowered the cup to the table beside his chair—the leather warmed in some places by the fire, freezing in others—and tucked his feet under him, retrieving his tea with both hands, pulling it close and hunching his shoulders to huddle over the steam for warmth. The fire grew in strength, gradually easing the frigid stiffness in his limbs, and he sighed, leaning back against the soft black leather, savoring the sticky sweetness of the honey lingering on his tongue. Turning over his left shoulder, he saw what at first appeared to be an undulating white cloud outside the windows, only making out the individual dollops of snow at closer examination, and spared a hope that John had thought to bring his hat, though he imagined vanity had won out in the end, John always insisting he looked wretched in all manner of head attire. His eyes drifted down to the bulge of his mobile in his pocket, but he stayed his hand, glancing at the mantle clock.

John would have to catch every train just as he stepped onto the platform to be back by now, Sherlock’s previous calculations reasoning he had at least ten minutes left to wait, so he busied himself with his latest acquisition from John’s old textbooks: A lengthy volume on skin conditions and reactions, complete with illustrations.

Twenty minutes later, the kettle announcing its second boil with a screech, the front door banged open, followed by a loud curse and stomping feet, Sherlock smiling down at the counter as he collected his mug’s pair from the cupboard.

“John!”

“Oh, sorry Mrs. Hudson, I-I didn’t mean for you to...hear that.”

“Hear what? Oh, nonsense.” The woman’s chuckle drifted up the stairs, Sherlock frowning down at John’s freshly poured tea, hoping the woman didn’t keep him so long it turned cold. “My husband was in Vietnam, dear; I’ve heard things that would curl even your hair. No, I’m just relieved your home is all. Storm picking up, is it?”

“You could say that,” John scoffed, and Sherlock hovered his eyes shut on a blink, imagining John hanging up his coat, brushing snow from his hair and blowing into his cupped hands for warmth. “Had to count streetlights to get here from the station.  _ Total  _ whiteout.”

“You hear that, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice strengthened, Sherlock rolling his eyes toward the stairwell. “Total whiteout!”

“Never doubted you for a second,” he called back, John chuckling at what he imagined was the woman’s sour expression.

“Well, don’t let me keep you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson muttered, voice fading, seeming to retreat toward her flat. “I’m sure you have  _ plans _ for the evening.”

“Plans?”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock barked, the woman’s tinkling laugh cut off by the  _ thud _ of her door as John’s footsteps creaked up the stairs.

“Do I wanna know?” he asked, popping his head around the doorframe, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head.

“Probably not.”

John frowned, eyes shifting toward the floor over Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and then nodded, content with ignorance. “I’ll be right back,” he said, heading for his room. “My socks are  _ soaked _ .”

Sherlock chuckled, John’s footsteps thumping above him as he carried their drinks into the living room, placing John’s beside his chair before settling into his own, perching his toes on the end of the seat cushion and flexing them toward the fire.

John reappeared a few minutes later wearing heavy sweatpants, bulky socks, and the thickest jumper he owned, though he still shivered as he curled up in his chair, pulling the tea into his lap. “Christ, it’s cold,” he hissed, shaking his head at the window over Sherlock’s shoulder. “And damp cold too, ya know? The kind that seeps into your bones?”

Sherlock nodded, and John shuddered at the memory, lifting his mug to his lips.

“So,” he murmured around a sip, “how was your day?”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “My ‘day’?”

“It’s a couple thing,” John explained with a shrug, and Sherlock smiled, supposing he’d have to take his word for it.

“Well, it was...mostly uneventful.”

“Mostly?”

“Someone in the back fell asleep during the exam,” he said, John’s eyes widening as he swallowed, “and started  _ snoring _ .”

John choked, pounding on his chest with one hand while the other guided his tea to the safety of the table. “ _ Seriously _ !?” he croaked, laughing when Sherlock nodded. “How’d the professor take that?”

“Threw a pen at him,” Sherlock answered, smiling over the rim of his cup as John’s laughter redoubled.

Sighing, the man picked up his tea once again, shaking his head through a swallow. “Kids these days.”

“Hopeless.”

“Truly.”

They chuckled, and then lapsed into silence, drinking their respective teas and staring at the windows and fireplace in turn, John draining the last few drops and standing several minutes later.

“Any idea what you wanna order?” he asked, leaving for the kitchen, the sound of his cup hitting the bottom of the sink followed by the scrape of the takeaway drawer.

Sherlock shook his head, and then remembered there was a wall between them. “No. I had Indian for lunch though.”

“So, no Indian…” The menus shuffled against the counter, a pause here and there as John presumably perused the contents, and then footsteps ambled toward him. “How do we feel about pizza?” John asked, turning a menu over in his hand as he balanced a hip against the doorframe. “Because there was a guy eating a slice outside of my exam earlier, and I seriously considered filching it.”

Sherlock chuckled, tipping his head back to drain his mug. “Pizza’s fine,” he said, untangling his legs and padding into the kitchen as John was opening the ordering app.

“Margherita?” he asked, following to lean against the counter as Sherlock rinsed out his mug with a shrug.

“Sure.”

John nodded, swiping at the screen. “Says it’ll be about an hour. Must be busy with the storm.”

“Lots of people too lazy to cook.”

“And too cold to go outside,” John added, chuckling as he passed behind Sherlock’s back to the fridge, pulling open the bottom drawer. “Guess we’ll have to start with a snack.” He turned, a bottle of beer in each hand, closing the drawer with a knee and the door with a hip as Sherlock laughed.

“Healthy,” he remarked, John rolling his eyes as he dug out the bottle opener.

“We just ordered pizza,” he scoffed, the bottlecaps hissing free, which Sherlock supposed was a fair enough point, tipping his head as John passed him his beer—a pale ale he must have picked up sometime Sherlock wasn’t looking.

John led the way into the living room, clinking his bottle onto a coaster and leaping lengthwise onto the sofa, his head lolling over an armrest with a sigh.

Sherlock stood at his feet, raising a brow. “Am I sitting on the floor?”

John lifted his chin, smiling and bending his knees, clearing space, but his legs promptly stretched again as Sherlock sat down, pinning his thighs to the sofa.

Sherlock glared, glancing down at John’s grey woolen socks. “I’m not rubbing your feet.”

“Wasn’t asking you to,” John said, crossing his ankles in Sherlock’s lap. “Just...elevating them.”

“Elevating them?”

John hummed, stretching an arm to snag his beer by the fingertips, delivering it to his opposite hand and tipping his head up to take a drink. “Helps with poor circulation,” he said, pointedly avoiding Sherlock’s glare and waving at the remote across the coffee table. “Can you grab that?” he asked, Sherlock levelling a flat look at him for several seconds before complying, though not without an exasperated sigh. “Thank you!” John chirped, smiling to himself while Sherlock shook his head, and then winced, grabbing the throw pillow beside him and lifting John’s feet by the ankles.

“Your bony feet are digging into my thigh,” he grumbled, shoving the pillow beneath them, and John chuckled, glancing across as he flipped through the channels.

“Maybe you just have bony thighs,” he retorted, yelping and jerking his feet away as Sherlock placed his cold bottle against an exposed slice of ankle. Scowling, he snatched the throw pillow from behind him, Sherlock sending it back with a block from his own, but John caught it before it made contact with his face, shoving it back behind his neck with a huff. “Rude,” he muttered, but did replace his feet on the pillow, some trust still seeming to remain.

John settled on a movie called  _ Resident Evil _ , trying to convince Sherlock it was a biological thriller rather than an obvious zombie movie, but Sherlock didn’t mind much either way, the horror elements comfortingly predictable while the scientific aspects were laughably implausible. The pizza arrived about halfway through the movie, John unfolding an old newspaper as a heat shield for the coffee table, and then they flung open the lid, curling the massive pieces in half and shoveling them into their mouths.

“So,” Sherlock said, first pieces completed and a commercial break beginning, “how did your exams go?”

“Well”—he curled his legs up under him, carrying a second piece to his lap atop a flimsy brown takeaway napkin—“I think infectious diseases went pretty well. Less confident with anatomy.”

“Don’t hear that every day,” Sherlock murmured, John’s toes giving him a sharp prod in the thigh for his trouble. “You don’t have one tomorrow, do you?”

John shook his head. “No, just the one on Thursday, but I’m going over to Mike’s to study for it tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded, retrieving his own second slice, John chewing through a bite before turning to him again.

“Your last one is tomorrow, right?” he asked, and Sherlock hummed an affirmative around a mouthful of cheese.

“Early,” he mumbled, swallowing to elaborate. “Molly’s last one ends around the same time, so we’re getting lunch to celebrate. Greg’s gonna try and make it too.”

“Sounds fun,” John said wistfully. “Don’t forget Mike and I in our studious solitude, will you?”

“Never,” Sherlock vowed, John chuckling before turning his attention to the returning movie, Sherlock’s eyes lingering a moment on the side of his face.

After two slices each, their stomachs abandoned them, and John took the remaining slices into the kitchen, stowing them in the fridge and returning with two more beers. The movie rolled on in front of them, John chuckling at Sherlock’s periodic scoffs at the questionable science or paltry attempts at gore—“It’s not even the right  _ color _ !”—, an occupation Sherlock was so thoroughly engrossed in, he hadn’t noticed John moving closer, startling when their shoulders brushed.

John blinked at him, a blush gracing the side of his face the television illuminated. “Sorry,” he muttered, and Sherlock shook his head, swallowing to remedy a sudden case of dry mouth.

“No, it’s- It’s fine,” he murmured, smiling back at John’s meek upturn of lips before turning back to the television, though the images were now slipping in and out of focus as his attention was pulled to the warmth of John’s arm against his, the occasional brush of a denim-clad knee, the steady shifting of his body as he breathed. His mind adrift, he hadn’t noticed the contrived musical cues and cinematography shifts that would herald an approaching jump scare, and so performed the desired action of jumping while John chuckled around the mouth of his beer bottle.

“You gonna need a nightlight?”

“I wasn’t scared,” Sherlock snapped, glaring at John’s skeptical expression, “I was just startled.”

John smiled, balancing his bottle against the side of his left thigh. “Most people would consider that the same thing.”

“Well, most people are wrong.”

“As opposed to you being wrong?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously,” John chuckled, and Sherlock pointedly turned back to the movie, making a show of ignoring him

The effort crumbled when John’s arm pulled away, Sherlock turning, assuming he’d offended, and finding himself staring at John’s bicep as the man lifted his arm, moving it around to the back of sofa and unveiling Sherlock staring at him.

He blinked, recoiling a moment in surprise, and then smiled, a shy curl of his lips that twitched with nerves at the corners. “Okay?” he asked, arm hovering just short of Sherlock’s shoulders, the prickling heat of its closeness creeping up Sherlock’s neck, and it was several seconds before he responded, jolted into action by a flash of fear forking through John’s eyes.

“Fine,” he breathed, voice frayed around the edges, and John looked like he’d dearly like to make fun of him for it, but refrained under the circumstances, nodding and settling his arm firmly over the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock looked back to the television, the alternative being to keep staring dumbstruck at the side of John’s face, but took in none of the watercolor blurs shifting in front of him, eyes darting back and forth as his muscles hummed under the command not to move.

John chuckled, rattling his shoulders. “Breathe,” he advised, lips tucked close to Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock sucked in a gulp of air, blowing it out as John laughed. “Idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head, Sherlock turning to retort when John’s grip hardened, pulling him in tighter, Sherlock’s body tipping as his head came to rest on the flattened front of John’s stretched shoulder. “You were too tall,” he murmured, the rumble of the words vibrating through Sherlock’s skull where they touched, sending shivers down his spine, “and this is how you’re supposed to watch scary movies anyway.”

“I’m not scared,” Sherlock echoed, the remark losing all of its heat at it fell against John’s chest, and John chuckled, stroking a thumb where his hand rested on Sherlock’s right arm.

“Well, then I suppose I could move,” he replied, no real threat in it, but Sherlock shook his head anyway, curling his feet up to rest on the sofa.

“No,” he said, hooking a hesitant finger into the worn navy fabric of John’s jumper, and he could feel John’s muscles shift with a smile, lips brushing Sherlock’s hair when he spoke.

“Okay.”

They were quiet for a time, watching the movie with only periodic sounds of disgust or hisses of laughter, John’s fingers circling absentminded patterns on Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock’s heart rate gradually slowed, disbelief giving way to comfort.

“I knew she was going to die,” he said as one of the main characters succumbed to the virus in the last few minutes of the film, lunging at the white protagonist he supposed he should be rooting for.

“She usually does,” John remarked, glancing down over his cheek as Sherlock tipped his chin up to frown. “That actress”—he bobbed his head at the screen—“her character always gets killed off.”

“Why?”

John shrugged, bobbing Sherlock’s head. “I dunno. She’s usually the only woman on the team.”

“So, misogyny?”

“Possibly compounded with racism.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Gotta love Hollywood,” John muttered, and Sherlock chuckled, fiddling with the side seam of John’s jumper as the credits began to roll, a wordless suggestion not to leave.

John leaned forward, stretching his free arm out to slide the remote off the coffee table with his fingertips and opening the guide. “The next one’s on now.”

“There are more of them?”

“Or we can find something else.”

“No, this- This is fine.” He readjusted his head on John’s shoulder, heart thundering as he moved his hand to more firmly rest against John’s side, the abdominal muscles twitching under his touch before settling, and John brushed his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm, placing the remote on the couch beside him.

“Okay,” he breathed, and Sherlock smiled into John’s jumper, the itchy wool only tolerable because it smelled like John’s shower gel.

The effects were better in the sequel—one of many, Sherlock learned—but he couldn’t be said to be following much of the plot, preoccupied with the couplets of John’s heartbeat thrumming along his jaw, the rhythmic strokes of John’s hand creeping closer to his neck with every rise. It was only because of this warning that he didn’t flinch when cool fingertips grazed up past the rumpled collar of his hoodie, but he did close his eyes, counting his breaths to keep them steady, disguising his frantic heart rattling the bars of its cage.

John didn’t seem to have the same foresight, his breaths shallowing as his fingers swirled over Sherlock’s skin, running in slow passes between the base of his skull and his cloaked shoulder, and Sherlock tried not to think, attempting to breathe out the doubt and terror clawing at his chest. His breath hitched when John pressed lightly on the dense strand of muscle running alongside his spine, increasing the pressure up to the base of his skull, dancing at the edges of his hair, and then chuckled, confusing Sherlock a moment before he realized he’d involuntarily whined.

“Tense much?” John teased, Sherlock too mortified for speech, thankful John couldn’t see his face turn crimson as he attempted to pinch John’s side in retaliation, meeting mostly muscle and growing even more lightheaded. John huffed a laugh, wrapping his thumb around to the companion muscle on the opposite side, his knuckle cracking as he pressed into the knots. “You’ve got to spend less time in that lab. Or at least get a better chair,” he chided, a shiver running down Sherlock’s arms as John rolled over the taut tangles of muscles at the base of his neck. “It’s obvious you’re hunching over your work.”

“Am not,” Sherlock murmured, or attempted to, but it came out as disjointed sounds of disgruntlement, John chuckling while he held pressure on a particularly stubborn knot, Sherlock’s shoulder twitching when the muscle released.

“Don’t argue with your doctor,” John said, all playful scolding, but it sparked something hot in Sherlock’s stomach, the first strike against flint long left to gather dust.

“You’re not a doctor yet,” he muttered, muffling his sharp intake of breath as John knitted back up his neck to his hair.

“No,” John remarked, pushing up into Sherlock’s curls just enough to send lightning down his spine, “but I’m a lot closer than you, and therefore the expert by default.”

Sherlock hummed, that making sense enough for the moment, and then frowned, dragging a question itching at the edge of his mind into the forefront. “How  _ do _ you know how to do...that?” he asked, pausing to wince over a particularly sensitive strain of muscle, John’s pressure slackening as surely as if he’d cried out.

“Er,” John murmured, and Sherlock opened his eyes, expectant, “well…I had an anatomy class last year, and we did a unit on muscles.”

Sherlock waited, quite certain John wouldn’t sound so uncomfortable if it were so simple an answer.

“And, er…part of the unit involved an examination of...test subjects.”

“Test subjects?” Sherlock echoed when John did not continue, his thoughts clicking into place as John’s fingers stilled on his neck, the fog clearing. “Oh my god!” He leaned back under John’s arm, tilting his head up to meet the man’s eyes. “You massaged  _ cadavers _ !?”

“No!” John blurted, but Sherlock was already laughing, bowing his head into John’s shoulder. “We just looked at the muscles! And only the once, mostly it was diagrams or dummies.”

“I hope you washed your hands,” Sherlock muttered, retching mockingly when John pushed on his cheek, shoving him away, and then turned back, laughter falling limp on his lips as their eyes met.

Their noses were scant inches from touching, Sherlock having the novel experience of looking up at John for once as the man’s shaky breath ghosted over his face, his lashes fluttering at the invisible impact. The points of contact between them buzzed as Sherlock became aware of them—the hand resting on his knee, the rising chest beneath his palm—and his heart played pinball around his ribcage, flashing lights and wailing alarms warning him or urging him, he couldn’t quite be sure. Distantly, as if from above water, he heard someone screaming in agony on the telly, the images in the corner of his eye suggesting a character was being eaten alive, an appropriately romantic moment to follow a conversation about cadavers, and Sherlock might have laughed at the absurdity of it were it not for John’s eyes picking that moment to flicker down to his lips.

Sherlock froze, his very breath stalling in his lungs as his mind spun its wheels, racing in place. He couldn’t have commanded his body to move even if he’d known what to do with it, only his eyes blinking out of biological necessity, and then John moved a fraction of a centimeter closer, Sherlock’s senses slipping away from him as sound dulled and light dimmed.

A heavy  _ thump _ sounded from across the room, both of them startling apart with a gasp, heads spinning on their necks to find a log had toppled in the fireplace, the flames reduced to little more than embers in their distraction. They met one another’s gaze out of the corners of their eyes, huffing simultaneous hisses of laughter to release the tension, and then John stood up, shuffling out from behind the coffee table to tend to the dying fire.

John’s back turned, Sherlock lolled his head back, lungs stretching with a slow, deep breath, and then sat up, wrangling his mobile out of his pocket for something to occupy his hands.

“Oh,” he murmured, an involuntary interjection as he scrolled through his messages, and John turned from where he was searching for just the right piece of tinder, lifting a curious brow. “Not you,” Sherlock assured, rattling his head, and John smiled, returning to his quest. “My mum. What time is your exam on Thursday?”

“11,” John replied, pausing midway through extricating a small log from the middle of the pile to look back with a frown. “Why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Just trying to sort out the timing. Mum said we could come down Thursday and stay the night, but  _ everyone _ will be leaving then. Might be better to wait til Friday morning. Plus there’s still economy seats on the 10:30 train. I’ll probably stay through Boxing Day, but when do you want to head back? Not that you’re not invited, of course, but there’s only so much of Mycroft I can expect non-blood to handle.” He scrolled through the train times, scanning late Christmas Eve and beyond for availability, but the silence stretched out longer than simple consideration permitted, and he lifted his eyes from the screen, blinking to adjust to the dim flat. “John?”

“Hmm?” The blond looked up from where he’d seemingly been lost in the pattern of the carpet, eyes wide with something not dissimilar to fright, a swallow moving down his throat as he blinked, resetting, but a tightness lingered around his jaw.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Are you alright?” he asked, and John stared at him a blink too long before nodding, like a short in the relays of his nervous system.

“Yeah, I-I just- You know, on second thought,” he muttered, knocking the log back into place as another swallow bobbed down his neck, “maybe we should call it a night. You have to get up so early, and I- I’m tired from my exams.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock glanced at the clock, no small amount of disappointment souring in the pit of his stomach. “It’s barely 10.”

“Yeah, but, ya know”—he clapped his hands together in front of his thighs, his chuckle strained—“gotta get those eight hours. And have time for breakfast! Can’t face-”

“Quantum chemistry.”

“-on an empty stomach!” He bent his arm in front of his body like an obnoxiously peppy camp counselor about to lead the troop in song, his false smile wilting as he seemed to realize it, clearing his throat and letting the arm flop to his side. “I’ll, um- We’ll...figure that out”—he waved an indistinct gesture at the phone in Sherlock’s hand—“tomorrow. Okay?”

Sherlock frowned, scanning John’s face, but the relative darkness of the room made it difficult to decipher the specifics of his expression, his eyes two latched shutters staring back from the shadows. “Okay,” he murmured, nothing else for it, and half of John’s mouth lifted in a smile or a grimace, Sherlock wouldn’t bet his life on either.

“Good. Well, I guess...er… Goodnight,” he muttered, more words locked in his gaze as it fixed on Sherlock, but he only dropped his face and turned, shoulders hunched with tension as he stomped from the room, taking the steps two at a time.

Sherlock’s eyes followed his footsteps through the ceiling, unblinking until he heard the squeak of the mattress as John flopped down atop it, and then dropped a puzzled look to his phone, National Rail timetables staring back at him. His tongue seemed to thicken in his mouth as a dread he couldn’t place took root in his chest, bitter flowers stretching up his throat to choke him, but he rattled his head, swiping the swimming numbers away and locking his mobile as he headed toward his room, determined not to worry.

Three hours later, he finally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *to the tune of that LEGO Movie song* EVERYTHING IS AWFUUUUUUUUL!!!!!

The flat was quiet when Sherlock awoke, the grey-blue light of the impending sunrise misting in through the cracks in the curtains as he crept into the living room, his socked feet soundless against the hardwood. Already running later than he’d like, he vowed to grab a coffee and croissant at the café near the Chemistry building rather than attempting to throw together breakfast, and headed for the stairs, hissing as his toe thumped against something heavy on the landing. Squinting through the gloom, he found a cardboard box, a cursory exam of the label revealing it was for him, and a frown creased his brow until he read the return address.

“About time,” he muttered to the walls, picking the heavier-than-expected box up and carrying it to his room, neck straining side to side to avoid a collision with the doorframe. He placed it on the floor as gently as he could, considering the weight, dropping to his knees to shove the box under the bed, and made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hudson if she had any wrapping paper, though he wasn’t above buying his own from Tesco’s if it avoided the woman’s prying questions. Not that he especially minded telling her what he got John for Christmas, but she did have something of a habit of accidentally blathering things shared in confidence when put under any degree of stress, and he’d rather not take the risk this close to the day.

The ice beneath him felt thin enough as it was.

Shaking that thought loose, he walked back to the stairs, stopping a moment to glance up at the ceiling he knew John’s bed rested just beyond, but no sound greeted his straining ears, and he crept down to the foyer, bundling up tight in his coat and scarf.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson appeared in her doorway, pulling her pink robe tight across her stomach, shoulders hunching as she winced. “Lord, it must be  _ freezing _ out! Is that all you’ve got?” She pointed a finger at his scarf, size-too-big slippers slapping toward him when he nodded. “Well, that’s not enough. Here”—she pulled a small grey knit hat off the shelf above the hooks, unfolding the brim—“take my hat. A lot of heat escapes through your head, you know.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock tried to assure, shaking his head, but it didn’t appear he was being consulted, Mrs. Hudson stretching up and tugging the hat over his curls with one firm yank.

“There,” she chirped, adjusting the wool to cover as much of his ears as she could manage. “Your mother will never let me hear the end of it if you catch a cold for her Christmas party.”

“Are you coming?” he asked, ashamed the thought had never occurred to him, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head, swatting a hand through the air.

“No, no. She invited me, of course”—she shrugged, eyes drifting toward the wall—“but I always spend Christmas Eve with Mrs. Turner. Poor thing, her son never visits anymore. Except when he wants money.” She lifted her brows in shrewd indictment, and Sherlock smiled, nodding with the unquestioning agreement of someone who didn’t have time to argue.

“Well, thank you,” he said, pointing up to the hat, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“No trouble, dear. And good luck on your exam!”

“Thanks,” Sherlock replied, the mystery of Mrs. Hudson’s knowledge of his personal life probably best left unsolved, and flicked a brief wave over his shoulder as he scooped up his bag and moved to the door, waiting for the woman to be safely shut back in her warm flat before swinging it open and pushing out into the icy wind.

************

“Can you drink at 1 in the afternoon?”

“As in are you physically capable, or is it socially acceptable?”

“Considering the crowd in here,” Greg broke in, glancing out over the tables of slumped students, “I don’t think you’d hear any objections.”

Molly wrinkled her nose, shaking her head as she lifted her latte to her lips. “Nah. They don’t serve alcohol in here anyway.”

“And you forgot your trusty flask,” Greg teased, slapping his knee with regret, and Sherlock chuckled, taking a drink while Molly sneered.

“You’re awfully chipper for someone with a  _ philosophy _ exam tomorrow.”

“Why do you hate me?”

Molly chuckled, her hand moving to take his under the table. “Just levelling the playing field. Why did you take philosophy anyway?”

“I thought it’d be the easiest option,” Greg shrugged, lifting his black coffee to his mouth with his free hand. “Which, as philosophy has taught me, was an erroneous assumption based on personal prejudices and stereotypes formed by my lived experiences.”

“Nice.”

“I was awake for some of it, you know.”

They shared a smile, Sherlock taking the opportunity of their distracted dating bliss to once again read over the day’s one-sided conversation with John.

_ Be proud of me, I had more than coffee for breakfast _

_ Though I imagine an almond croissant leaves some nutrients to be desired _

_ Exam time _

_ Well that was about what I’d expected. Meeting Molly now. _

_ Greg’s here too. Wants to know if you two could “pop over” _

_ Mike text him no _

_ For some reason _

_ Have you been crushed under a large pile of textbooks? _

_ Driven mad by Greek? _

_ John? _

_ Ἰωάννης? _

_ I had to look that one up, full disclosure _

“Sherlock?”

He started, fingers dropping from the keyboard, undecided on what they were going to type next anyway.

Molly frowned, glancing between his eyes. “Are you still with us?”

“Of course,” Sherlock muttered, placing his phone facedown on the table and lifting his almost untouched latte. “Flasks. Philosophy.” He took a sip, surprised to find the foam had kept the liquid beneath it tolerably warm. “Greg’s Odyssean journey to overcome personal bias.”

“Odyssean?”

“Of, relating to, or characteristic of-”

“I know what it means, Sherlock.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“I didn’t, I was repeating for emphasis. Now, are you going to tell us what’s wrong, or do we all have to go on an ‘Odyssean journey’?” Molly tilted her head, eyebrows lifting expectantly as Greg pushed his cup aside, folding his arms on the table and mirroring her firm gaze.

Sherlock looked between them, forcing a puzzled frown a moment before shielding his mouth with his cup. “Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?”

“Answering a question with a question.”

“Highly suspect.”

“Highly sus- I didn’t realize I was having coffee with Poirot and Hastings!”

“Wait, which one of us is Poirot?”

“Greg.”

“Right, sorry,” the man muttered, pointing at his chest and mouthing ‘Me?’ when Molly turned away, and Sherlock nodded faintly, not having any particular inclination one way or the other, but he’d rather not crush the would-be detective’s dreams.

“You’ve been quiet all morning.”

“We’ve only been here forty minutes.”

“Sherlock.”

“What?” His cup thumped too-hard against the table, coffee sloshing at the sides. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong.”

“You’re a terrible liar when you want to tell the truth,” Molly said, and Sherlock blinked at her, too taken aback by the stern certainty of her voice to rebuke the accusation. “You’ve been frowning at your mobile since we sat down. What’s going on? Is it your family?”

“There’s noth-” he began, but one withering look from Molly told him he’d be better off paying the piper before they started charging interest. “No,” he sighed, shaking his head, “my family’s fine.”

“Irene?” Molly bit her lip as he shook his head, fingers shifting around the sides of her mug. “Did- Did Victor get in touch?”

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes shot up, brow creased in perplexment. “No, of course not. Why would he?”

“I don’t know,” Molly murmured with a shrug. “Sometimes people do. It has been three weeks.”

Sherlock frowned at his coffee, puzzling out the calendar in his brain, but Molly was right, they were only a few days away from the melancholic anniversary. How quickly things changed… “Well, he hasn’t,” Sherlock reaffirmed, shaking his head, and Molly nodded, returning her attention to her coffee.

“Is it exams?” Greg supposed, frowning when Sherlock shook his head again. He then looked up through his lashes, and Sherlock saw it spark in his eyes a second early and a second too late. “Did something happen with John?”

Hearing it aloud struck Sherlock harder than he’d expected, delaying his denial by precious milliseconds, and then it was pointless to try, Molly’s eyes already fixed and sharpening.

“Sherlock?” she pressed, the rough ceramic bottom of his cup scraping against the table as he twisted it by the handle. “ _ Did _ something happen with John?”

Sherlock swallowed, shrugging a shoulder and forcing a scoff of laughter. “What could’ve happened? It’s been a week.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, I suppose it’s not,” Sherlock rebutted, his sharp tone misdirected, but Molly didn’t seem to take it to heart, her eyes patiently expectant as he sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I-I don’t know what happened,” he muttered, shaking his head down at the table, “or if anything happened at all. It was just...strange. And now he’s not answering my texts.”

“Well, he’s studying, isn’t he?” Greg rushed to supply, leaning forward and glancing between them. “Probably doesn’t want to get distracted. He hasn’t talked to me either.”

“Or me,” Molly confirmed, and, though misery never failed to be improved by company, Sherlock couldn’t still the anxiety plucking at his chest, a needling suspicion that John’s technological absence wasn’t so easily explained.

“Yeah,” he murmured with what he hoped to be a convincing smile, his innermost workings aired enough for one afternoon, “you’re probably right.”

“‘Course we are!” Lestrade roused, shaking Sherlock by the shoulder to rattle out a genuine laugh. “We’re Poirot and Hastings!”

Molly rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips betrayed her amusement, and Sherlock nudged the conversation away to the Christmas holidays, the couple eager to gush about the first holiday shared with their respective families.

“Did you pick up those chocolates for my mum?”

“Oh, I thought we agreed a gift card would be better.”

“ _ Greg _ !?”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” He chuckled, slinging an arm around Molly’s shoulder and pulling her tight to his chest, Sherlock smiling around the brim of his cup as Molly made a show of half-hearted wriggling. “I got the chocolates. And those golf balls for your dad. I still think I should bring wine or something too though.”

“There’s no need, they’ll have plenty.”

“Yes, but they’re  _ hosting _ ; I should bring a  _ hostess _ gift.”

“They’re only hosting for a few hours.”

“Still, you’re supposed to bring wine when someone invites you to dinner.”

“You’re bringing chocolates.”

“It’s not the same!”

Sherlock watched as they sparred, compromising on Greg bringing flowers for the table instead, his face plastered with passive amusement as his heart sank to weigh against his churning stomach.

If only his problem was so easily fixed.

************

Between choosing to believe Greg against all odds and running out of things to say, Sherlock refrained from texting John for the remainder of the evening, busying himself with helping Mrs. Hudson wrap presents—an occupation the woman surely knew he was using as a distraction, but she was kind enough not to pry. When all the hats, scarves, and socks for the various nieces and nephews were boxed and bedecked, she made him tea, killing another half an hour before he could stand it no longer and retired to 221B to wallow in self-pity in solitude.

He stretched out on the sofa, his phone face-up on the coffee table next to him, eyes darting from the ceiling to the screen whenever a shift of light deceived him into thinking he had a message. 6 o’clock passed. Then 7. And still without any word, his phone mocking him by its silence as Sherlock’s fabricated alibis fell apart one by one.

There was only so long John could be stuck on a train due to a medical emergency in a neighboring car, only so many “‘nother round”s he could go through with Mike at dinner, only so much studying it was possible to do with one textbook for one exam, and, as the clock ticked toward 8, Sherlock found himself staring down the barrel of an inescapable reality.

John was avoiding him. And he had no idea why.

At 7:45 he sent a single text.

_ Where are you? _

Replacing the phone on the coffee table, he sat up with a sigh, shuffling into the kitchen to put the kettle on, a task immediately abandoned when he heard his phone chirp from the other room, nearly tripping over the rug as he bolted for it.

**_On my way. 15 minutes. I’m bringing Chinese._ **

Sherlock swallowed, saliva tinged with acid. He’d wanted to get a text from John all day, but this cold perfunctory reply? That, he could’ve done without, but, he supposed, ‘Be careful what you wish for’ wasn’t an adage for nothing.

The tea forgotten, he slipped the phone into his pocket and began buzzing about the flat, his anxiety lashing out at any object within reach. He straightened the mail on the table by the door, forming two separate piles: envelopes and ‘Current Resident’ magazines. There was a cup sitting beside John’s chair, a centimeter of cold tea staining the bottom, and Sherlock swept it up, dumping the liquid in the kitchen sink and giving the ceramic a futile rinse. He then noticed a small array of cups and utensils slotted into the drying rack, and busied himself with replacing them in the respective cupboards and drawers, reorganizing the cutlery to group the two sizes of spoons with their fellows once more. He was just considering cleaning the bare shelves of the fridge when the front door swung open, the telltale rustle of flimsy plastic bags drifting up the stairs, and Sherlock froze, knuckles white on the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he stared unblinking at the doorway.

John’s footsteps faltered at the top of the steps, a hesitation only familiarity would notice, and then he stepped into the kitchen, a sullen expression on his downcast face. “Oh!” he blurted, looking up in surprise at Sherlock’s silent presence. “I-I didn’t- ...Hi.”

“Hi,” Sherlock replied, voice a puff of forced breath.

John’s lips twitched with a smile that fell short of his eyes, and Sherlock’s stomach wrenched, Greg’s ‘busy studying’ theory thrown out the window like a Molotov cocktail. “I got you orange chicken,” he said, dropping the bag on the table and crossing to the cupboard, eyes averted, “hope that’s alright.”

“Er, yeah,” Sherlock murmured, fixed on the stiff set of John’s shoulders as the man pulled down two large plates. “That’s fine.”

An indistinct noise of acknowledgment scraped through the back of John’s throat, his movements sharp and rapid as he tugged open the utensil drawer and began rattling out cutlery, and Sherlock took a deep breath, never one to delay the inevitable.

“John, why-”

“It came with rice,” John interrupted, eyes never lifting from the plates while he walked back to the table, as if trying to shatter them with his mind as much as his white-gripping fingers, “but I got a vegetable lo mein too. And egg rolls—a pork and a veg—but we’ll have to cut ‘em to tell which is which; fried dough all looks the same.”

“John,” Sherlock attempted again, shifting around the table toward him, “can we-”

“You want a drink?” John darted past him, takeaway container abandoned half open. He yanked open the fridge, condiments trembling in the door, a hand snapping out to steady a precarious jar of jam. “There’s water, coke, Tango orange-”

“John.”

“-the last bottle of that beer you said tasted like it had been fermented in a gym bag-”

“John, please.”

John stilled, the sickly yellow light of the refrigerator cutting around his taut silhouette, and Sherlock swallowed, trying to breathe through the sloshing in his stomach, the molten lead scalding his constricted chest.

“Will you just...say it?”

John’s head twisted slightly, a centimeter farther from Sherlock’s prying eyes. “Say what?”

Sherlock swallowed, tugging the sleeves of his shirt down into his palms with his fingertips. “Whatever you’re trying to avoid.”

A beat of silence, and then John sighed, shoulders slackening with the release. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head as he turned, the fridge door drifting shut behind him. “About today. I was being a jerk. I just...didn’t know what to say.”

“About my exam?” Sherlock questioned, unsurprised when John shook his head, but at a loss for the actual subject of discussion.

“No, about...about Christmas Eve.”

Sherlock blinked, brow furrowing over curious eyes John met with the briefest of glances.

“I-I don’t think I can- You know how my mum’s going up to Scotland to stay with my aunt?”

Sherlock nodded, breaths growing shallow as John twisted his fingers over his thighs.

“Well, her cat’s ill—my mum’s cat, that is—and she doesn’t want to make him travel, so...so someone needs to be at the house to watch him.”

Sherlock frowned, searching John’s face, stomach curdling as reality eroded his denial. “Doesn’t her neighbor normally do that?” he asked, the uncertainty in his tone merely a matter of politeness, and John’s eyes ducked left to the countertop, tongue flicking over his lips as he sucked them taut over his teeth.

“Yeah, but she’s- My mum- The cat-” He sighed, running a hand back through his hair, resignation settling heavy on his wilting shoulders. “I volunteered,” he admitted, a bitter truth Sherlock had already known, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. “I-I’m sorry, I just...don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Don’t think  _ what _ is a good idea?” Sherlock asked, voice sharp with more anger than he felt, but it was so much easier to express than disappointment.

John bit his lip, wringing his hands in front of him. “Me...being there. I mean, it’s Christmas Eve,” he muttered, jerking his shoulders in a nervous shrug. “It’s a family holiday, not-”

“-an occasion to invite fifty people over for dinner? Oh wait! That’s exactly what it is!”

John’s eyes lingered shut on a blink, a breath slowly rattling over his lips. “Look, I just- It’s too soon, alright?” he said, voice breathy and eyes earnest. “I mean, we’ve only been dating a week!” he pronounced, as if that settled it, but Sherlock only quirked a brow.

“So?” he snipped, John’s eyes blowing wide. “What does that matter? We weren’t dating at all when we planned it.”

“Exactly!” John urged, stepping closer, Sherlock still puzzled by his conviction. “It was one thing when we were just friends, but now it’s...different.”

“How?” Sherlock asked, John’s gaping mouth wobbling with replies Sherlock didn’t give him a chance to voice. “Did we stop being friends?”

John sighed, his exasperation needling at Sherlock’s already pressed nerves. “No, not-not exactly, it just… It changes things, Sherlock.”

“Like your ability to keep a promise?”

“I didn’t  _ promise _ .”

“Right, sorry,” Sherlock spouted, hands swatting through the air, “I forgot I needed a signed contract now that we’re not friends.”

John rolled his eyes, inexplicably still haughty in spite of his argument being built on quicksand. “Of course we’re still friends, it’s just  _ different _ ! Me going to your family’s for Christmas Eve means something  _ more _ now.”

“Like what?!” Sherlock exclaimed, shaking his head, incredulous. “That you don’t want to leave me alone in a room full of lawyers and my ex?”

John winced, an insufficient flash of guilt. “No, I- You can still bring Irene. Or Molly, I don’t think she’s-”

“I don’t  _ want _ to bring Irene! Or Molly!” The words tore through Sherlock’s throat, a week’s worth of confusion and frustration stampeding free, because he didn’t want things to be different; he didn’t want to take it slow; he didn’t want to feel like they were only halfway doing everything, John’s foot perpetually propping open the door, and he certainly didn’t want to spend Christmas Eve  _ alone _ with Victor Trevor. “I want to go with  _ you _ , like  _ you _ said we would when  _ you _ RSVP'd! Why would you even offer to come if you didn’t want to?”

“I did want to!”

“And now you don’t?”

“No, I just- I can’t!”

“Why not!?”

“You know why not!”

“What, because of your ridiculous ‘rules’?” Sherlock scoffed, curling his fingers around the words, John’s arms crossing defensively as his jaw set. “How is that going to work, John? We  _ live _ together! You can’t only see me twice a week.”

“It’s not ‘seeing’, it’s ‘going out’,” John muttered. “We only went out once.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, anger momentarily stifled by shock before roaring back to life as fury. “Great!” he bellowed, a bolt of vindictive pleasure forking through him at John’s flinch. “I’ve got one in the bank! Now, do group outings count? Rugby games? Passing one another on the sidewalk? Is this a Monday to Sunday week, or do you prefer a biblical approach?”

“Why are you doing this?” John spat, taking a half step forward in challenge, arms unfolding to clench in fists at his sides. “It’s not like it was some big secret! You knew how I felt about this stuff; I don’t know why you’re so surprised!”

“Neither do I!” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, but not from strain, his words grating over the lump of hot humiliation throbbing in his throat. “All the times I’ve watched you do this, fuck if I know why I thought I would be any different!”

“That is  _ not _ what I-”

“But at least your ‘no significant holidays’ record is intact, got in just under the wire on that one! I think I’ll leave it til after the holidays to pack up my things, though, if that’s not against  _ the rules _ .”

“What are you talking about? I don’t wanna break up!”

“Well, maybe I-!”

Silence. The kind of silence that breaths, its pulse pounding in Sherlock’s ears as John stared across the space between them, a few feet of linoleum that might as well be a chasm for how impossible it was to cross.

“Maybe you...what?” John murmured, and Sherlock would have relished his freshly-punched-in-the-stomach tone a little more if he wasn’t halfway to vomiting himself.

“I- I don’t know,” he breathed, shaking his head down at the floor, hiding from John’s gaze as his eyes began to burn. Drawing in a breath, he set his jaw, determined to exit with whatever tatters of his dignity remained. “It’s been a long day,” he said, voice hollow, his eyes averted. “I’m going to bed.”

“But,” John started, a floorboard creaking at Sherlock’s back as he moved toward the door, “dinner. You-You didn’t- Sherlock, I-”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock clipped, just sharp enough for his meaning not to be mistaken, and John made no reply, though Sherlock could feel the earnest gaze burning the back of his neck. “Goodnight, John,” he said, an icy barb thrown back in his wake, and then rounded the corner, ducking into his room and locking the door, sliding his spine down the painted surface as his knees wobbled their last.

He couldn’t say how long he sat there, the fallacy of time the least of his concerns, his thoughts chasing one another around his head, devoured and reborn in an endless, futile cycle.

John not coming to the Christmas Eve ball was one thing, would have been one thing, but it was the reasoning that had Sherlock’s head swimming, the implications. This was what he’d wanted, the deep, dark, desperate kind of wanting you couldn’t even acknowledge within yourself without being consumed. Surely he shouldn’t- He  _ couldn’t _ \- Could he?

Sherlock sighed, pulling his legs up to rest his forehead on the uneven rounds of his knees.

A week ago, he would’ve given anything to be with John Watson. Maybe he still would if John Watson was ever something he could have, but Sherlock could not content himself with pieces, and John would always be holding a few to the chest.

Could that ever be enough?

The floor vibrated beneath him as a gentle  _ clink _ ghosted under the door, Sherlock holding his breath as the footsteps retreated, not daring to move until he heard the floorboards shifting overheard. Sliding out of the way, he reached up to twist the handle, peering an eye through the crack, confirming the hallway was empty before opening the door an inch shy of where the hinges squeaked.

A plate rested on the floor in front of him, heaped high with chicken, rice, and noodles, but it was both of the egg rolls perched on top that proved the breaking point of his fraying composure, and he bit his lip as his eyes burned hot, lifting the plate with trembling fingers and locking the door behind it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short, but the next couple are getting posted all at once because they are THE END!! I'm going home for Easter/road-tripping with my sister to bring her new dog home though, so there might be a bit of a gap between this chapter and the rest.

Sherlock had spent more of the night awake than asleep, hearing John’s first stirrings against the squeaking mattress above as the blue light of breaking dawn misted in through his curtains, washing the room out to grayscale, a fitting setting for his bleak mood.

He held his breath as John descended the stairs, afraid even a brush of his lashes against the pillow would give away his consciousness, but John did not approach the door, tiptoeing into the bathroom, the shower groaning to a start a few moments later. He waited for the rustle of the shower curtain to be certain John wouldn’t hear him, and then threw the blankets off, grinding the palms of his hands into his aching eyes with a sigh. If he hadn’t figured out what to do throughout the night, however, it wasn’t going to be solved this morning, and he pushed the hurricane of thoughts aside for now, slapping around his nightstand until his fingers brushed his mobile.

If Mycroft had thought it strange that Sherlock was texting him at 4am, he hadn’t said, responding at the much more reasonable hour of 5:37.

_ Are you still leaving for Sussex tomorrow? _

**_I assume you mean today, but yes. Why?_ **

Sherlock rolled his eyes, echoing Mycroft’s text in a mocking grumble as he typed a reply.

_ Can you pick me up on your way through? _

The response took only seconds, Sherlock a little bit honored Mycroft had looked up from his ritualistic mountain of sausage and eggs with such haste.

**_I thought you were leaving tomorrow morning?_ **

“What are you, my travel agent?” Sherlock scoffed at the screen.

_ Change of plans. Thought I’d get out early. _

He stared down at the phone, silently pleading his brother would leave it at that, at least until he had him trapped in the car.

**_I’ll be outside at 10. Don’t make me ring the doorbell._ **

His lungs emptied with relief.

_ I won’t. Those few extra steps might kill you. _

**_I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. See you at 10._ **

_ Got it, 10:30 sharp _

**_Goodbye, Sherlock._ **

Sherlock smiled, replacing his mobile on the nightstand and sliding his feet off the bed, wriggling his toes against the cold hardwood to keep his lazy blood pumping into the extremities. The shower still running, he felt safe to get up, the creaking floorboards hidden in the hiss of water as he made his way to the closet, pulling out a small duffel bag and splaying it open on the bed. It was only going to be a few days, enough essentials still stowed away at home to allow minimal packing, but he folded in a handful of items—two pairs of jeans, a casual jumper, and a few pairs of socks and pants, just to be safe. His suit he would leave hanging in its garment bag until he could transfer it to the backseat of Mycroft’s car, but he did pull out the polished black wingtips reserved for formal occasions, gently beating the dust off the bag before placing it in the duffel. His razor and other bathroom necessities would have to wait until the coast was clear, and he used the little time he estimated he had left to place the suitcase on the floor, just finishing making the bed when the water squeaked to a stop.

He moved to lean against the desk in front of the window, hands latching onto the lip as he watched the wall, eyes shifting with every sound of John’s movements.

He pulled back the shower curtain, the towel rack ringing as he whipped his towel from its rung, and then dried off with a series of indistinct rustling sounds, the next clear mark of his position being the squeak of the tap twisting on. He brushed his teeth—always 3 minutes, like overachieving clockwork—, and Sherlock heard the roll of a drawer as John removed the moisturizer a long-forgotten girlfriend had insisted he buy, though that was a few bottles ago, John muttering about the benefits of SPF whenever he threw it into their basket, as if not wanting flaking skin wasn’t a manly enough reason. The towel rack rattled again soon after, more rustling as John put on his robe, and then the door creaked open, John’s footsteps soft as he crept back up the stairs.

Sherlock glanced at the clock, John’s time running short if he wanted coffee before his exam, but he wouldn’t have time to make it at the flat, a hypothesis proved correct as John thumped down the stairs seven minutes later, the heavier footfalls indicating the added weight of his backpack. He ducked into the bathroom for a moment, light flicking on and off for one last look, and then it was quiet, Sherlock glancing at his doorknob, confirming it was locked.

A single footstep. Another. The creak of a floorboard.

“Sherlock?” The voice was only slightly louder than the knock, a timid thing he might very well have slept through under better circumstances. “Sherlock?” John called again, and Sherlock’s grip tightened on the desk, eyes darting away from the door as he flinched.

Even if he’d had any idea yet what he wanted to say, it wasn’t something to be discussed in the five minutes before John had to rush out the door, and, a long few seconds later, John withdrew, his jagged sigh just audible as he moved away down the corridor.

His progress stalled at the top of the stairs, and Sherlock held his breath, uncertain what he wanted to happen, but his wistful thoughts of grand declarations proved to be only that, and John’s boots hit the first step, the front door swinging open and shut shortly after.

He rolled his fingertips against the desk, biting his lip in a war with himself, and then raced from the room, the door banging back on its hinges as he bolted down the corridor, nearly slamming into the wall as he peered around the living room curtains to the street below. It took him a moment to locate John, and, when he did, the man was much closer than expected, standing just in front of Speedy’s, teeth nibbling at a corner of his mouth as he looked back at the painted black door of 221B.

It was cold, the chill emanating from the thin glass near Sherlock’s cheek, but not snowing, providing a clear view of the peeking sun glinting off John’s tousled blond hair, no doubt still damp from the shower, and the foolish man without his hat, per usual. His tan brow was furrowed, eyes tight, hand twitching in and out of a fist at his side, and then he turned, his back stiff as he started toward the tube station.

Sherlock pulled back the curtain with a fingertip, watching his progress, and then dropped it with a start, pinning himself to the wall when John spun on a heel, stomping back down the pavement, determination set in his shoulders. One eye creeping through a crack in the fabric, Sherlock watched as John’s feet slowed, halting just short of the front steps, Sherlock’s angle nearly straight down to the top of his head, but he could see John’s hands uncurl, shoulders rolling with a defeated sigh.

He stepped back from the door, exhaustion seeming to seep into his face before Sherlock’s very eyes, and then lifted his right wrist, tugging up the cuff of his jacket to reveal Sherlock’s re-gifted watch. Sighing again, he cast a heavy last look at the door and turned, thrusting his hands into his pockets, Sherlock pressing his face to the frigid glass until the last of him faded from view.

He rolled back to lean against the wall, curls grinding against the paper as he tipped his head up to the ceiling, closing his eyes and blowing out a sigh.

It was better this way, he supposed. Give them both time to regroup. Space to think. The usual suspects.

Down the hall, he heard the distant hum of his phone against the nightstand, and walked back to his room, expecting Mycroft to be changing the time or reminding him to bring the horrible family Christmas jumper he was going to unfortunately forget, but found John’s name instead, the message already open before common sense had time to stop him.

**_Knocked on your door this morning. Guess you’re still asleep. Text me when you wake up?_ **

A moment passed, Sherlock’s fingers hovering indecisively over the keypad before the mobile rattled in his hand.

**_Or not. Might be better to talk in person. Whatever you think I guess._ **

Sherlock had scarcely finished reading before a new message appeared below.

**_I’m gonna stay at Mike’s tonight so it would have to be tomorrow._ **

He blinked.

**_Anyway bye for now._ **

Sherlock frowned at the now still phone, trying to puzzle it out.

Tone was always a difficult thing to decipher in text form, but John was at least somewhat rambling. That showed signs of discomfort, at least. But then, overall, his language had been rather matter-of-fact, almost formal, and he didn’t even want to  _ be  _ at the flat that night, leaving Sherlock’s stomach swirling with sickening possibilities.

He turned the mobile facedown on the nightstand, shaking his head in censure of such thoughts.

Rome wasn’t built in a day. Or torn down, for that matter. And he had a ride to catch.

Gathering up the necessary toiletries was a five-minute task, but Sherlock dragged it out, cleaning his razor and trimming his nails, anything to avoid time to think. Throwing everything into a plastic bag, he tied it off and placed it in the duffel bag, tossing the heinous red and white snowman jumper on top of it all, his mother’s Disappointed Face judging him from his mind’s eye. After that, he got dressed, taking his time to select an emerald jumper and dark jeans, his grey trainers the only shoes he was comfortable exposing to the mud and wintry slush of his country home, and then knelt to the floor, checking the bag one last time before zipping it shut. He planted his palm to the ground, readying to push up when his eyes caught on something under the bed, and he pulled out the plain cardboard box, swallowing hard as his fingers ghosted over the brown packing tape.

It felt like a different world from the one in which Sherlock had ordered this present, scouring the internet for days, even needing to go so far as to speak to a elderly man on the  _ phone _ when he had difficulty navigating the website’s messaging system. He’d been thrilled to find it, his excitement only growing when he and John’s relationship transcended the platonic, but now the joy was tinged with fear, a bitterness rising in his throat as he hoisted the box onto the bed, the springs croaking in protest.

Still, he already had it, and John wouldn’t like it any less for the unexpected turn their holiday plans had taken, though Sherlock couldn’t discount the man being too uncomfortable with their situation to keep it. But that was a question he couldn’t know the answer to, and he hadn’t hunted down the gift as some grand ploy to get John to date him; he’d done it as a friend, as a  _ best  _ friend. Surely they could still be called that much.

He glanced at the clock, not enough time left until Mycroft’s arrival to wrap the gift properly, but he had stolen a bow from Mrs. Hudson’s supplies, and crossed to the dresser to remove that from its hiding place in his sock index, peeling off the paper backing and securing it to the lid of the box. He grabbed a notebook from his desk, sloppily ripping out a page, the edge jagged and frayed, and pressed it flat against his nightstand, scrawling out a hasty note and trying to ignore the bile climbing his throat. Creasing the paper in half, he scribbled ‘John’ across the folded front, tucking it under a corner of the bow, a shoddy makeshift card. He then grabbed his suit from the closet before he could second guess anything, scooping up the duffel bag and leaving his door unlocked when he shut it, knowing John would be determined enough to barge in eventually.

He sat the bag down on the foyer floor to put on his coat, draping the garment bag gently atop it, and was just adjusting the cuff of his glove into a comfortable position on his wrist when he heard the single honk of a car horn outside, hitching his duffel bag onto his shoulder and holding the suit out in front of him as he wriggled out the door.

Mycroft was leaning across the armrest, peering out the top of the passenger window, and popped the trunk when he saw him, getting out to help a courtesy Sherlock was too familiar to be afforded.

He nestled his bag beside Mycroft’s suitcase—a small roller bag Sherlock imagined would pay for one of his university courses—and shut the trunk a little harder than necessary, opening the back door and hanging his suit on the hook beside Mycroft’s matching black garment bag before dropping into the passenger seat, the seat-warmer being on a thoughtful surprise.

“Is that all you’re bringing?” Mycroft asked, bobbing his russet head toward the trunk, and Sherlock rolled his eyes out the window, fastening his seatbelt.

“My clothes don’t take up as much space as yours,” he replied. “They’re smaller.”

Mycroft sneered, but did put the car in drive, turning over his shoulder before merging into the nonexistent traffic. “I trust you ate something,” he snipped. “I don’t want you pretending not to feel ill the whole trip.”

“I had toast,” Sherlock lied, a futile endeavor, Mycroft rolling his eyes with a sigh before the sentence was even fully out of his mouth.

“I have to stop at the office anyway. Drop off some papers.” They stopped at an intersection, Mycroft leaning forward the check the traffic light. “There’s one of those horrendous coffee chains across the street. I presume they have more than foamy sugar concoctions.”

“Guess I should return the Starbucks gift card I got you for Christmas,” Sherlock muttered, a corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifting before he cleared his throat, brushing at the horrible candy cane-striped tie Sherlock vaguely remembered their father getting him last year.

“Do you have money?”

“I have my card,” Sherlock answered, and Mycroft nodded, the car growing quiet as Sherlock pretended to take an interest in the radio droning out a traffic report.

“Is your guest coming down today too?”

Sherlock had known this was coming, his attempt at nonchalance more a matter of course than something he expected to work. He quirked a brow, constructed confusion creasing his face. “Guest?”

Mycroft glanced out of the corner of his eye as he made a right-hand turn, playing out his part in the pantomime. “Mother said you were bringing someone.”

“Oh,” he muttered, nodding as he turned his face to the window, watching the rows of identical white houses roll by, “yeah, I was. Something came up.” He shrugged a shoulder, swallowing and setting his jaw. “He couldn’t make it.”

“Oh.” Mycroft said nothing more, his tone devoid of nuance, but Sherlock’s curiosity wasn’t even enough to make him turn his head, eyes unfocused at the changing scenery as they wound their way through central London. “I like their cold brew.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but turn at that, genuine confusion folding his brow.

Mycroft smiled, expression uncharacteristically open. “Starbucks. I like their cold brew.”

Sherlock blinked, and then smiled, the ache in his chest soothing somewhat with the warmth of the unspoken comfort. “Damn,” he murmured, “now I might actually have to get you that gift card.”

Mycroft huffed a laugh. “If you got me anything at all, I might die of shock.”

“All the more reason,” Sherlock murmured, and Mycroft sighed in exaggerated exasperation, reaching forward to turn off the radio.

“So,” he clipped, readjusting his hands on the steering wheel, “how were your exams? Still enrolled, I hope.” He shot Sherlock a scathing look that carried no heat, an obvious conversation hard-left, but Sherlock only shook his head and began the summaries, grateful for any reprieve from the inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's not the finale, but I got too carried away and thought something was better than nothing, so have this interlude and expect the final chapter mid-week!
> 
> Also, mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks (myself included, narcissistically enough) are working on putting together a new Sherlock convention in Minneapolis next summer!! If that sounds like something you'd be interested in, it would be great if you could take two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) so we can tailor-make the experience as much as possible.

The doors of Speedy’s were shut tight and fogged, frigid morning air clawing against the warm haven of incandescent light. It was early, past the morning rush, and they likely wouldn’t bother being open much longer, a combination of Christmas Eve and record cold temperatures keeping most people with any sense inside.

John heaved a breath into his hands, hoping to save his bare digits where he’d failed to salvage his ears, and pulled his keys from his pocket, mounting the snowy steps of 221B in a single leap, shuffling his weight between his feet to keep blood flowing as he opened the door and tumbled into the foyer. Stomping snow from his shoes onto the entry rug, he crossed to the hooks on the wall, shaking his jacket clean before hanging it up, shoes thumping against the baseboard as he toed them off. He glanced at Mrs. Hudson’s door, but the lack of the woman’s immediate appearance at his noisy arrival suggested she wasn’t in, and then started up the stairs, footfalls slow and heavy.

He’d hardly slept at all the night before, Mike giving it his best effort before succumbing to post-exams exhaustion at around 2am.

Mike had tried to help, joking about ice cream sundaes, pillow fights, and talking about boys—the sleepover staples—but John wasn’t in the sharing mood, and they’d eventually settled into playing video games, Mike downgrading his comments to pointed glances every time John cursed more colorfully than usual. He had still been asleep when John left that morning, the first wisps of dawn light snuffing out the little hope for rest he had left, but he’d sent him a text, thanking him for the sofa and promising they’d talk later.

What there would be to talk about was still undetermined, however, and John turned at the top of the stairs, staring down the corridor at the blank face of Sherlock’s door.

_ ‘Well, maybe I-!’ _

_ ‘Maybe you...what?’ _

He swallowed, eyes dropping to the floor.

He’d never meant for this to happen. Not that intent had much to do with the result, but it wasn’t like he had entered into the relationship expecting to have a meltdown less than a week in. He’d never  _ lied _ . Surely that had to count for something.

His feet shuffled against the hardwood, a board creaking as he shifted his weight.

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten about promising to go to the Holmes’ Christmas Eve party, he just...hadn’t thought about it. At least, he hadn’t thought about going as Sherlock’s  _ date _ , and, when forced to, it had felt rather like being thrown into a tunnel slide with the walls closing in.

And he’d panicked.

He wasn’t too proud to admit it, he had no-bones-about-it  _ panicked _ , though not—as he saw it—without cause.

They’d only been dating a week! And maybe it would’ve been different if it were just Sherlock’s parents and his snob of a brother, but this was a party, a  _ huge _ party, the kind of party that would be insulted you hadn’t called it a gala or soiree, and there would be  _ so _ many people! No one John knew, in all likelihood, but even being introduced to strangers as Sherlock’s boyfriend made him feel...feel…

He shook his head, leaning against the railing and running a hand through his hair, a sigh wafting up toward the ceiling.

Afraid.

It made him feel afraid.

Not because he was worried he’d spill wine on the carpet or have a sloppy knot in his tie or be branded just plain not good enough—though he’d clearly given _ that _ more thought than he’d meant to—but because, if he  _ did _ go, if they did the handshakes and small talk, it wasn’t something he could take back. If he learned Mrs. Holmes’ favorite flower, what car Mr. Holmes drove, whether Mycroft was physically capable of smiling, if he entered their lives,  _ cared _ about them, then they would matter, and John had learned a long time ago that letting things get that close only made it hurt more when they left.

And Sherlock-

God, Sherlock…

His eyes fluttered closed, hand shooting to his chest, a pain he knew couldn’t be his heart singeing across the muscle regardless.

He’d been in too deep from the start with Sherlock. He supposed he had known that, known without understanding, like the fuzzy feeling of a forgotten word on the tip of your tongue.

Sherlock didn’t like thunderstorms, but loved watching falling snow. He had a secret fondness for Tango orange, though John always had to buy it, smiling through Sherlock’s scoffs and never questioning when cans disappeared. Sherlock had hated his first violin teacher, memorizing the whole beginner’s book in a week so he could trade up. He liked a little more than two sugars in his coffee, but felt silly saying so, for whatever reason. His left eye twitched when he’d gone too long without sleep. One corner of his mouth lifted up higher than the other when he smiled, a perpetual smirk ingrained in the muscles.

Try as he might, John couldn’t keep Sherlock at arm’s length, if only because he’d never been there to start with, but meeting the parents, spending  _ Christmas _ with them… What if it ruined everything? Or, worse, went well?

What if they liked him? What if he liked them? What if they drank cocoa and exchanged small gifts on Christmas morning, Sherlock’s mother pulling out baby books when he wasn’t looking? What if they waved goodbye to Sherlock’s parents in the doorway—Mycroft cast as their chauffeur to the train station in John’s mind—and weaved their way through the snowy landscape back to London, Sherlock dozing off against the window? What if they were together for Valentine’s Day, takeaway containers littering the coffee table as they watched every horrible romantic comedy they could cram into the hours before sleep overwhelmed them, Sherlock’s frozen toes wriggling their way under John’s thighs in a slow creep he’d pretend not to notice? What if Sherlock moved all the way in? What if he moved upstairs?

What if he came home one day to pack a bag and announce he’d met someone else?

John shook his head, scolding himself for the prickling in the dormant corners of his eyes.

It was an old wound, scabbed and scarred long ago, but it still pulled, resisting whenever he tried to reach beyond the fortress of his fear, a reminder of why the walls had been constructed in the first place.

He could still hear his mother crying, shut behind her bedroom door, voice muffled as she sobbed down the line to his aunt.

‘The secretary!  _ Secretary _ ! I guess we’re both cliches.’

He hadn’t seen his father since, though there was still an ignored call every year on his birthday. He never listened to the voicemail.

John dropped his gaze, watching his fingers curl in and out of fists he hadn’t realized he was making.

It was a ridiculous comparison, said the logical part of his brain, but the emotional side was a tornado of terror, obliterating any fragile scaffolding of hope he attempted to erect.

He glanced down the hall, the door still shut, floorboards silent.

Sherlock would no doubt have heard him come up the stairs, would know he was standing here, buying time for answers that wouldn’t come.

John didn’t know what he was going to say, didn’t know where to start explaining something he barely had a handle on himself, but, he knew one thing for certain, and that was that he did  _ not _ want to break up. Had to start somewhere, he supposed.

He walked with purpose down the corridor, steps hard, announcing his approach, and lifted a fist toward the door, pausing to draw in a deep breath before rapping his knuckles against the wood. “Sherlock?” He leaned in to the door, ears humming as they searched the silence. “Sherlock?” he called again with a firm knock, twisting his wrist to check the time, but it was still too early for Sherlock to have left for the 10:30 train. He sighed, stepping back to lean a hip against the wall, ankles crossed and arms folded over his chest. “Sherlock, come on, we have to talk about this. I know you’re awake”—he nudged the bottom of the door with his toes, rattling it in its frame—“and you have to come out eventually. Your train leaves in an hour.” He flinched, realizing a second too late that the singular pronouns would not help his cause. “Unless you plan to jump out the window,” he joked, trying to brush the awkwardness aside, but only grew more anxious as he considered how not-far-fetched a possibility that was. “Don’t jump out the window; I’ll go upstairs if you wanna avoid me that much, you can just...knock three times or something.” He held his breath, listening for a rustle of cloth, a crack of a floorboard. “Going once,”—he took a half step closer, ear almost pressed to the paint—“going twice...”

There was no knock, no shuffle, no puff of stifled breath, and John sighed, pressing his spine against the door, projecting into the wood over his shoulder. “Okay, well, if you don’t want me to leave, I’m just gonna...talk. Alright?” He received no reply, but, all things considered, silence might be kindest words Sherlock had to offer. “Alright,” he muttered, drawing in a breath to center himself, grasping wildly at the incomplete thoughts still swirling around his head.

“Look, I- I was thinking...while I was at Mike’s...and I think I just- Well, there’s a lot happening. And I know it  _ isn’t _ all happening at once, like this didn’t fall out of the sky, but it sort of  _ feels _ like that. In a way. Sometimes. I don’t know,” he murmured, rattling his head as he turned away, tipping up his chin and resting the crest of his skull on the door. “It’s just...a lot And maybe it shouldn’t be, maybe most of this is just me up in my own head, but...it’s so  _ fast _ ! And I know I told you I’d go with you, and you probably think I’m the biggest arse on the planet, but- No.” He shook his head, dropping his eyes and swallowing hard at the floor. “No, there is no ‘but’. I’m the biggest arse on the planet. And I’d love to have some excuse I could tie up with a bow and give you, but...I don’t. I just don’t. I’m an arse and a liar and a  _ shit _ friend and...a coward.”

Something shifted inside him at the whispered confession, a moment’s relief before guilt and shame clamped down on his chest. “I’m a coward.” His throat rattled as he drew in a breath, the plaster ceiling wobbling in and out of focus, and he curled his fingertips back against the door, sliding against the brushstrokes in the paint. “I don’t think I always was,” he said, hair grating against the wood as he shook his head. “At first, it was just...easier. I didn’t  _ want _ anything to last, so it didn’t matter that I already had an exit plan. Though I’m not sure that’s any better, now that I say it aloud.” He huffed out his nose, a bitter laugh at his own expense. “The point is, we were young. Everything just sort of...reached a natural end. Nobody got hurt. At least, not at first.” He dropped his face, raking a hand through his hair with a sigh. “But then, as you get older...the stakes get higher. There’s certain...expectations. Possibilities. And I knew that, I understood it when it came to everyone else, but I- I just couldn’t do it. And I told myself it was because I just wasn’t the ‘relationship’ type, but...honestly, I  _ hate  _ dating.”

He straightened up, grinding his fingers into his temples as he paced in front of the door. “It’s  _ exhausting _ , all the get-to-know-you rubbish you both have to  _ pretend _ to care about when all you’re really thinking is how much you’d rather be having  _ any _ other conversation over Chinese straight out of the carton, because we’re all fake as fuck on dinner dates—I mean, who actually gets a spoon out to twirl their spaghetti at home? No one! It’s pretentious bullshit we do to impress someone  _ we don’t even know _ !” His hands flew up toward the ceiling, head shaking as an irritable  _ huff  _ hissed past his teeth. “It’s ridiculous! All the guessing games and hoops to jump through. And then, as soon as you get comfortable, you have to start all over with someone else! Or, well...I do, anyway. Or I thought I did,” he muttered, staring unseeing at the wall, a swallow bobbing down his throat as he fought the impulse twitching in his knees, his nerves all screaming a single word in tandem: Run.

“But I don’t- I don’t want to.” He turned back toward the door, leaning against the wall and speaking to the crack he hoped would open. “I don’t want to keep going on first dates and making small talk and pretending to be interested in pictures of someone’s  _ horse _ , I-I want… I want… Sherlock, will you  _ please _ open the door?” he urged, heart pounding, his mind reeling with the epiphany he needed to have to someone’s face. “I don’t wanna...leave it here! I-I don’t want you going off and-and we- I mean, maybe- Maybe I- If you still- Sherlock?” The door rattled under his fist as he knocked. “Don’t make me get Mrs. Hudson’s lockpick set. Or Mrs. Hudson.”

Not a sound met his ears, and, for the first time, John felt a twinge of worry, not even Sherlock stubborn enough to remain unbowed at the threat of Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock?” He knocked again, harder. “Sherlock?”

The doorknob twisted in his grasp, and he froze a moment, staring at the brass knob, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Okay, in my defense, it would’ve been rude to just-” The jest withered on his tongue as he stepped into the room, body swaying slightly when his feet came to a sudden halt.

There was no one there, the room empty in a stale, shuttered way that suggested John was more than a little too late. The bed was made, the desk chair tucked in, and the closet door was ajar, John rushing across and flinging it open to scan the wooden floor.

Sherlock’s suitcase was gone.

His chest trembled around a jagged breath, stomach swirling as he staggered back, dizzy with familiar terror.

He was gone. He had left.

John was alone.

Panting, he thrust trembling fingers into his back pocket, fishing out his mobile, but stalled over the keyboard as the message thread opened.

Sherlock had left without saying goodbye, without saying _ anything _ .

Some hints were so obvious, even John could figure them out.

He locked the mobile, lowering it to his side, breaths shallow as he scrubbed his free hand over his face, twisting away from the closet and pacing back toward the bed. Through a slit in his fingers, he saw it.

A note.

The paper sliced the fold of his thumb when he snatched it up from atop the cardboard box, blood creeping into the page in watery tendrils as he lifted it to his face, his vision shaky.

_ I went a little over the budget. I’m sure you’re not surprised. _

_ Happy Christmas. _

_ —Sherlock _

The word were simple enough on their own, but John needed to read the note three times before they made any sense strung together.

A Christmas present. Sherlock had left him his Christmas present.

John lowered the note to his chest, frowning at the plain cardboard box, as if asking it to explain itself, young man. Tentatively, he moved forward, placing the note on the bed, his knees bumping the side of the mattress as he leaned over the gift. He flicked a curl of the bow with a fingertip, but the package didn’t start hissing or ticking, so he tugged at the tape on the side, translucent ribbons of cardboard dragged along for the ride.

Unfolding the flaps, he was greeted—somewhat anticlimactically—by a brick of styrofoam, cringing as polystyrene snow flaked down over Sherlock’s bed, but he’d add that to his list of apologies for later, scraping free the top of the protective shell with a shudder-inducing  _ squeak _ .

And froze, holding a gasp hostage in his chest, the styrofoam cap falling to the floor with a limp  _ thud _ .

The pieces were wrapped in clear plastic, nestled in the precisely cut holes that would never fit them again once they were removed, but John paid that no mind, gently prying free the largest and unwrapping it with careful fingers.

The locomotive was a deep crimson, with black accents and wheels surrounded by glittering silver cylinders and rods, the black smoke stack topped with a crown of gold.

John turned it over in his hands, examining every angle in the dreary morning light, his heart lodged in his throat. A droplet of water splashed over his hand, dripping onto one of the wheels, and John hastily wiped it with his sleeve, coming out of his trance to realize he was crying, his cheeks damp to his disbelieving touch.

He glanced at the note, flopped back to its memorized position, his name staring up at him in Sherlock’s hand.

“ _ Fuck  _ me!” he exclaimed, laying the locomotive on the bed and darting from the room, racing up the stairs two at a time to pack for a different train.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, just like that (and an epilogue), it's over!! Endings are always bittersweet, but I'm still glad this tiny Christmas fic spiraled out of control. It's been fun for me, and I hope you've enjoyed the ride as well. 
> 
> But enough of that nonsense, ON TO THE HAPPY ENDING!!!!

“Another champagne, sir?”

Sherlock turned over his shoulder, finding a woman in her mid-thirties holding a tray of fizzing flutes, tired green eyes atop her customer service smile. He downed the little left in his glass, placing it on the far side of the tray with the other empties before plucking a fresh one by the stem, bobbing it toward her. “Thank you,” he said, taking a short sip as she nodded. “Now, if you could just follow me around for the rest of the evening...” He trailed off as the woman chuckled, smiling around the rim of his champagne.

“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” she assured, grinning when Sherlock lifted his glass in salute, and then weaved back into the crowd, distributing her wares.

The ballroom looked, per usual, like it had been ripped from the pages of a Christmas fairytale—glittering gold garlands and sparkling crimson baubles covering any surface the pine boughs and holly leaves left unadorned, a towering Christmas tree standing before the wall of windows overlooking the dark gardens, the stage for the auction set up beside it. Through the tall double doors on the wall behind him, Sherlock knew the dining room was waiting for its grand reveal, two long cherry tables replacing the usual single, with candlelit arrangements of white roses and holly scattered along the length, a gold-embroidered runner stretched out beneath them. He had watched the hired event staff setting it up earlier, his mother buzzing around the periphery, twitching needlessly at forks and napkins.

“Sherlock, check the cutlery for water spots,” she’d muttered, turning over a spoon in her hand, her eyes crossing as she scanned the sparkling surface. “Ms. Shaw is not going to have _anything_ to complain about this year, no sir!”

“You know she’ll find something regar-” he had started to interject, but his mother had hushed him, and there was nothing for it but to sigh and start scrutinizing knives.

It was shaping up to be the best Christmas Eve Ball to date, spotless cutlery and all, but Sherlock was already longing for the quiet darkness of his room upstairs, though the evening had only just begun, the early birds flocking in for pre-dinner drinks, dinner still half an hour off.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket, and he rolled his eyes, flapping open his tailored black suit jacket and wiggling it out of the interior pocket one-handed, glancing at the contact name he suspected was now permanently burned into his retinas. He rejected the call with a huff, and then turned the phone off entirely, stowing it back in his jacket for the remainder of the evening.

John had called him six times, starting early in the morning when Sherlock suspected his absence had been discovered. Three of those calls had resulted in voicemails, but Sherlock hadn’t listened to them, nor read the twenty-odd texts surrounding them.

He didn’t know what John needed to say so urgently, but he knew he had no interest in hearing it when he still had hours to spend locked in a room with a collection of England’s richest and dullest, not to mention it being Christmas Eve. Getting dumped could wait til Boxing Day.

“Pace yourself,” Mycroft chided from over his shoulder, causing him to choke on the last swig of champagne, “or you’ll be under the table before dinner.”

Sherlock patted his sternum, clearing his throat. “I _am_ pacing myself,” he snipped, turning to face his brother, the button of his dark grey suit pulling a little more than he remembered. “I’ve only had three.”

Mycroft quirked a brow. “In the past twenty minutes?” he muttered, and Sherlock sneered, hoping he wasn’t giving away how close that estimate was. “At least eat something,” he said, holding out a small white plate with a sampling of the night’s hors d'oeuvres. “I may have checked on the progress in the kitchen,” he added in answer to Sherlock’s questioning look, and Sherlock chuckled, taking something wrapped in puff pastry in spite of himself. “Good?”

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, rubbing his fingers together to dislodge the clinging flakes as he swallowed. “Better than expected. Brie and some fruit or other.”

“Jam?”

“Jelly.”

“Pity,” Mycroft muttered, lifting a mushroom-topped crostini from the plate. “I do rather enjoy pointing out the seeds in everyone’s teeth.”

Sherlock hissed a laugh, turning his eyes out over the room, a faint pang he’d been trying to stifle all day worming through his chest as he regarded the sea of faces, dreading a familiar one.

“He’s not here yet.”

He turned, certain the anxious leap in his chest had broken through to his expression, but Mycroft was carefully avoiding his eyes, gazing at a fixed point in the crowd. “Who?” he asked, Mycroft’s sharp glance chiding him for being tiresome, and then dropped his face to his empty glass, swirling the last milliliter of liquid one never could manage to drain. “Mrs. Hudson?”

Mycroft nodded, confirming the deduction.

“Did she- Does mum-” he murmured, the women striking up an unlikely friendship after a chance encounter at a family dinner during one of his parents’ welfare checks to London, but Mycroft shook his head, relief cascading over Sherlock’s shoulders.

“She thought it best left to you,” he said, “but they do know you’re living with her now, so I assume some discussion of your relationship status did occur.”

“Great,” Sherlock grumbled, stomach wriggling anew, and Mycroft cast down a sidelong smile, deftly swiping a full champagne from a passing tray.

“Save room for cocktails,” he advised, trading Sherlock for his empty glass. “I have a suspicion we’ll be needing them.” He bobbed his head toward the foyer, a newly arrived trio handing their coats off to the porter.

Sherlock groaned into his drink. “Why does she even _invite_ them?”

Mycroft shrugged, popping a pesto palmier into his mouth. “They have more money than brains. Always a desirable quality at an auction.”

Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head and drawing in another sip. “Easy for you to say,” he grumbled. “You don’t have Emily wanting to ‘grab lunch’ every time she’s in town.”

“Still?” Mycroft asked, chuckling when Sherlock nodded, ignoring the pointed glare thrown his way. “Well, you two do have a history.”

“I was four!”

“True love never dies,” Mycroft mused, staring into the middle distance, a corner of his mouth lifting, but Sherlock’s colorful rebuttal was cut off by his mother breaking free of the crowd and rushing toward them.

“Have you heard?” she gushed, eyes darting between them.

Sherlock met Mycroft’s equally perplexed glance. “Santa came?” he muttered, Mycroft coughing over a chuckle as their mother rolled her eyes.

“No,” she huffed. “Emily Harrison is _engaged_!”

“Oh, thank god,” he sighed, his mother slapping him on the shoulder while Mycroft laughed, a lower chuckle joining in.

“Don’t think you’re out of the woods yet,” his father said, wrapping an arm around his wife, her pinched expression softening as she leaned into his shoulder. “Eileen’s still a bit _free_ with her hands.”

“Oh, stop!” Violet Holmes hissed, swatting her husband in the chest.

“What?” the man laughed, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s true! You were _there_!”

“Well, I didn’t see anything.”

“Because you were in front of me and she was grabbing my-”

“Siger!” Mrs. Holmes shushed, and Sherlock’s father sucked his lips in over his teeth, eyes comically wide as he glanced between his sons. “I’m sure it was an accident,” she muttered, tucking a loose curl of greying hair behind her ear, a mark of time she wore with a proud adage: ‘It shows what I’ve survived’. “Now, you’re being rude,” she admonished, turning to face him and tidying the knot in his tie. “Go and welcome our guests.”

Mr. Holmes’ brows lifted toward his silver hair. “Are you pimping me out?”

“Dad!?” Sherlock bleated, Mycroft choking on air, pounding his chest as he twisted away from the group.

“What?” His father lifted his hands in a shrug, and Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head at the floor.

“I-I’m gonna...go get a lobotomy,” he muttered, Mycroft chuckling while his father only smiled.

“Oh, can you stop by the kitchens on your way?” his mother asked, catching his bicep with a manicured hand. “Tell them I want to start serving dinner in twenty minutes.”

“Alright,” he answered with an obliging sigh, his mother beaming as she stretched up to give him a peck on the temple.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Now, hurry up.” She hooked her arm through her husband’s, locking him to her and guiding them back toward the crowd. “If we don’t greet them soon, it’ll seem like a slight.”

“Seem?” Mr. Holmes lilted, throwing a wink to his boys over his shoulder, but put up no protest, the crowd parting with brief smiles and greetings as the Holmes’ made their way to their targets.

Sherlock turned his face to Mycroft, brow furrowed in befuddlement. “‘Pimping’?” he breathed, and Mycroft shrugged, shaking his head.

“No idea,” he muttered, lifting a mystery puff pastry to his face for closer examination. “I blame cable.”

Sherlock snorted, eyes automatically drawn back to his parents, but found a different set looking back at him, Emily’s starched ringlets bouncing as she waved. His mouth curled in a grimace he hoped looked like a smile from a distance, hand flicking side-to-side in one sharp gesture.

“They grow up so fast,” Mycroft sighed wistfully, a huff of air punched from him as Sherlock’s elbow hit his ribs, but he recovered enough to chuckle at Sherlock’s back when he retreated toward the kitchens, creeping unseen along the edges of the ballroom.

He delivered his mother’s message to a woman who looked like she’d been a Russian prison guard in a past life, a quick jerk of her hand sending him on his way and her staff into an organized frenzy, and then darted between shadows in the corridor, making his way to the library for a moment’s respite from the bright lights and dim small talk.

The heavy oak door shut with a soft _click_ , hushing the clamor of revelry, and Sherlock pressed his forehead against the cool wood, a sigh fogging over the polished surface. Straightening up, he turned toward the wide windows overlooking the sloping side garden, headlights illuminating the snow-laden trees and barren hedges in a sweep as a car curved around the front drive. His fingers twitched, reaching for the weight in his pocket, but he mentally slapped his wrist, pinning it back to his side as he leaned a hip against the wall, pressing the curtain flat beneath his shoulder and watching the snow be swept up and swirled by the wind.

The ride with Mycroft had been strained, but at least it was distracting, his mother and father sweeping him into party preparations the second he was released from their arms. He’d had a couple hours to himself to get showered and dressed, but even then he’d been occupied—his mother popping in to make sure nothing needed a steam or polish; his father offering cufflink options that each came with a story. By the time the party had started, Sherlock was boiling in his skin, itching for a moment of quiet, a moment to breathe, a moment to at least scratch the grating surface of a problem not even a train could outrun.

He felt his mobile pressed against his chest, a leaden weight on his lungs.

Even if he read John’s messages and listened to his voicemails and they weren’t awful, Sherlock didn’t know what he wanted to say, how he wanted to proceed. Or rather, he didn’t know what he _should_ say.

He wanted to tell John he forgave him, that he’d be fine avoiding birthdays and graduations and Valentine’s Days, that he’d take whatever scraps and crumbs tumbled off the table into his pleading hands. He wanted to be able to be what John wanted, to be content with what John could give, to be the cold, aloof man most people perceived him to be and just not give a damn, but he wasn’t and he couldn’t and he did, and he couldn’t keep pretending otherwise. It would never be enough. No matter how much he wanted it to be, no matter how much he stretched and bent and compromised, it would inevitably reach a breaking point, reach _this_ breaking point, because there were some things—absurd, impractical, soppy things—that he wasn’t willing to give up on yet. And maybe they were impossible, maybe love couldn’t be plucked from the silver screen without tarnishing in your hands, but, by _god_ , he was far too young to give up before he’d even _tried_! There was so much time left, so many people and places still ahead in the vast ever-evolving landscape of life.

Surely he’d be happy somewhere. Be enough for someone.

He couldn’t will that to be John.

A burst of laughter bubbled from beyond the door, startling him out of his spiralling thoughts. Checking the time on the mantle clock, he saw dinner was approaching, and begrudgingly moved away from the window, knowing his mother would want him to be there for the dining room’s unveiling.

A small group of jabbering women were leaving the foyer when he stepped into the corridor, the man carrying their various outerwear to the coat room giving him in a perfunctory nod as he passed, and Sherlock followed after them, hoping their boisterous entrance would allow him to slip back along the walls unseen. People had started to drift toward the dining room doors, the room abuzz with anticipation, blocking his path with more tipsy aristocrats than he felt like dealing with at the moment, so he improvised, ducking his head behind his half-full glass and swinging around the outskirts of the gathered group, dodging stragglers in a zigzag pattern toward his parents’ position beside the door. He was nearly there when he saw Emily turn her head from near the front of the crowd, forcing him to stop and hide behind a tall portly man with an ill-conceived mustache, a second’s delay that would cost him dearly.

“Sherlock!”

His blood ran cold, frost prickling up his throat as he turned toward the better-forgotten voice.

“I was wondering where you were hiding!” Victor leaned in, ignoring Sherlock’s recoil and cupping his shoulders, planting a kiss in the air beside each of his cheeks.

He used to find it charming. Now he wanted to throw up.

“I’ve been otherwise engaged,” he said stiffly, jerking his shoulders out of Victor’s loitering grasp. “Still am, I’m afraid, so-”

“Woah, what’s the rush?” Victor’s fingers brushed against his wrist, curling on air as Sherlock yanked his arm away, weighing how mad his mother would be against how much he wanted to punch Victor’s bleached teeth. “Dinner’s not for another ten minutes, and I was hoping we could”—he shrugged a shoulder, eyes dipping to the floor in a pantomime of penitence—“talk.”

Sherlock blinked, a single wrinkle creasing his forehead. “Talk?” he echoed, brow folding further when Victor nodded. “About _what_?”

Victor’s lips parted, then closed, a swallow bobbing down his throat as he scanned their surroundings. “I- I broke up with Seth,” he said, dropping his voice.

Sherlock tipped his head. “And you seemed so happy together,” he deadpanned, and Victor rolled his eyes, Sherlock’s incredulity rendering him catatonic as Victor grabbed his arm, pulling him a few steps farther from prying ears.

“I _mean_ ,” Victor sighed, as if Sherlock were the tiresome one, a tactic he could now see had worked far too many times, “that I broke up with him _for_ you. I- It’s not the same. At the flat...without you.” He shook his head at the ground, and, looking at him now, bereft of any emotion or attachment, Sherlock wondered if maybe he did mean it, if he was regretful in the only selfish, manipulative way he knew how to be.

It was almost piteous. Almost.

“I-I miss you, Sherls,” he breathed, taking Sherlock’s silence for encouragement, hands groping at Sherlock’s fingertips as he stepped out of reach.

“And I miss _In the Flesh_ ,” he snipped, “but I think that ship’s pretty well sunk, don’t you?”

Victor’s mouth dropped open, eyes bulging like a dry-drowning fish, and Sherlock shook his head, ready to drive the stake home when a small voice sounded at his side.

“Mr. Holmes?”

He turned to find the porter he’d passed in the corridor, the man nodding at Victor in deference before continuing.

“Your plus one is here, sir,” he said, or seemed to say, his mouth shaping the sounds Sherlock’s brain interpreted as those impossible words.

“My what?” he muttered, and the man’s eyes darted between them, an anxious wrinkle forming between his brows.

“Your-Your plus one, sir,” he repeated, and Sherlock blinked, getting a hold of himself. “He’s just arrived.”

“Right,” he clipped, brushing down his lapel and clearing his throat, “of course.” He turned to Victor, who had somehow transcended fish and landed squarely in shocked cartoon character, his jaw polishing the marble. “You’ll excuse me,” he said, passing the man his glass, Victor’s shock-limp fingers complying automatically, and then turned, blowing out a breath and following the porter to the door, feeling lighter with every step away.

Buoyed up on spiteful victory, they were nearly to the foyer by the time he remembered the cause of their journey, and turned curiously toward the door, already decided he would make whatever drifter, drug addict, or opportunist had rolled the dice into an official guest of honor, but the man standing beneath the holly-draped chandelier was none of those things, and Sherlock stopped dead in the doorway, trying to blink away the mirage.

“John?”

John Watson smiled, a fragile thing that seemed to expect to be broken, his hands lifting from the pockets of his navy suit as a swallowed bobbed down his throat. “Hey,” he breathed, a whisper Sherlock more read from his lips than heard, and he stepped forward, dismissing the porter with a nod.

“What- What are you-” he started, but that wasn’t the question he wanted to ask, John attending a party he was invited to hardly a curious thing in itself. “Why are you here?”

John opened his mouth, then closed it, hands toying with the slits of his pockets as he rocked back on his heels, watching the polished tips of his shoes. “I- I got your present,” he murmured, looking up through his lashes.

Sherlock bristled, his brow folding with a frown. “A text would have sufficed,” he clipped, and John lunged forward, hand outstretched.

“No, I-I mean-” he stammered, head shaking furiously. “I got your present, and then I- Well, actually, it was before that, but- When I got back from Mike’s, I went upstairs to talk to you,” he explained, hands waving side-to-side, his gaze locked somewhere in the air between them, “and-and while I was apologizing, I-”

“You apologized?” Sherlock interjected, and John met his eyes, mouth moving soundlessly as a helpless frown creased his face.

“I- Okay, let me start over. I got back from Mike’s and-”

A burst of laughter came from the ballroom, both of them jumping at the intrusion, and Sherlock scanned back over his shoulder, having forgotten the proximity of their audience.

“Not here,” he hissed, bobbing his head down the corridor to the left, and John followed with a nod, his dark brown oxfords tapping softly over the marble.

“Angela said she saw him go this way.”

He froze at the sound of his mother’s voice, heels clicking ever closer to the foyer, and scanned the corridor for a quick escape, throwing open a door on the right and flinging John ahead of him by the wrist.

“What the-”

“Shh!” Sherlock hissed, snapping the door shut behind them, plunging the room into darkness as he listened to her heels click closer...closer...past.

“Where could he have gone?” she asked over the telltale _click_ of the library door. “Dinner’s going to start soon.”

“Probably just went to the loo,” his father replied, their footsteps crossing his hiding place again. “I’m sure he’ll be right back.”

His mother’s reply was muffled by distance, but he let several seconds of silence play out before flipping the lightswitch on the wall, blinking as John hissed.

“Are we...in a closet?” he murmured, squinting at the racks of coats flanking them, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I clearly had to improvise,” he muttered, waving a hand back at the door, and John smiled, a chagrined curl of his lips. “Look,” he snapped into the stretching silence, “I don’t have a lot of time, so, if you’ve something to say-”

“I’m sorry.”

He stilled, meeting John’s earnest eyes, a flicker of cautious hope catching in his chest.

“I-I didn’t- I was wrong. About...a lot of things. Everything, maybe.” A morbid laugh puffed past his teeth, mouth flattening shut as he swallowed. “I didn’t- I thought I was- _God_ !” He raked a hand through his hair, shaking his head at the coats as he paced the few feet between the racks. “I did this a lot better to your door, I swear!” he urged, lifting his palms, and then sighed, biting his lip and watching his shoes slap against the floor. “Let’s see, I...I started out saying it was all moving too fast—Oi! I’m not done!” he barked at Sherlock’s rolling eyes, and Sherlock huffed, rolling a hand in impatient urging. “I _started_ saying that,” he clarified, head bobbing for added emphasis, “but then I realized...it wouldn’t matter how fast it was going. That is, the speed wasn’t the problem, _we_ weren’t the problem—or, well, _you_ weren’t, anyway—it was- It was me.”

Sherlock watched the side of John’s face as he stopped, the single overhead light casting long shadows down his face, but there was no mistaking his solemn expression, the tight set of his jaw as he steadied himself.

“I was...scared,” he whispered, shaking his head in wonder, as if still coming to terms with it himself. “I thought—and not just with you, I mean, I _always_ thought—that it would be easier to never really...care. To keep everyone—romantically, at least—at arm’s length, because...because...”

“You expected them to leave,” Sherlock offered, and John twitched a grateful nod.

“I thought it wouldn’t hurt,” he murmured, watching his hands wringing in front of his chest. “If I didn’t care, if _I_ ended it. But...it makes no difference.” He looked up, locking onto Sherlock’s eyes, searching between them with rabid desperation. “Especially now, especially with you, because I- I don’t remember how to do life without you in it.” He blinked a sheen over his eyes, and something clamped down on Sherlock’s throat, hard and unrelenting. “And it doesn’t matter if you’re my friend or-or _more_ , I can’t keep you at arm’s length, I don’t _want_ to, and I-” A swallowed rolled down his throat, eyes blinking at the ground before he drew in a ragged breath, lifting his chin and holding Sherlock’s gaze with heartstopping sincerity. “I know I hurt you,” he said, and Sherlock had to look away, arms folding protectively over his chest, “and you have every right to tell me to bugger off, but...I _really_ don’t want you to.”

Sherlock bit his lip, the fake fur stole in front of him blurring in and out of focus.

“And I know- I know you have no reason to believe me-”

“No,” Sherlock interjected, clearing his throat to smooth the roughness in his voice, “I don’t.”

John remained silent, watching intently as Sherlock sighed, stretching his hand across his forehead to knead at his temples.

“Why would this be any different?” he blurted, hands slicing wide. “You’ve been doing this for years, John, _years_ ! And I’m expected to believe you’ve had some _miraculous_ transformation?”

“Honestly?” John murmured when Sherlock did not continue, one shoulder giving a limp shrug. “No. I don’t expect you to believe me.” He glanced up to Sherlock’s eyes, posture slumping with resignation. “I don’t think I would, if I were you. And I didn’t come here to convince you.” He shook his head at the ground, misery etched in every crease and fold of his face. “I just...I wanted you to know. I mean, of course I _hoped_ , but I didn’t- I just wanted you to know,” he echoed, taking a deep breath, voice steadying as he lifted his chin, “and then maybe...someday...if you can forgive me...” He trailed off with a shrug, grinding a hand over the back of his neck. “I dunno,” he breathed, shaking his head, and Sherlock bit hard at the inside of his lip, a vicious civil war tearing him apart.

It seemed too good to be true, too clean, the kind of thing that happened to other people in other places far, far away from here. For as much as John had done everything in his power to avoid being hurt, Sherlock had become accustomed to it, finding something almost soothing in the inevitability of disappointment. It had hurt more coming from John, of course, but he’d made his peace with it, or at least wrapped the gaping wound in gauze and duct tape and was hoping for the best. He’d never expected John to change his mind, to apologize, to be here. He never thought himself worth fighting for.

But John Watson was here regardless, defiant, his navy suit rumpled and creased from travel, his eyes heavy with aggrieved exhaustion, a pulse point thrumming in his neck as his fingertips twitched at his sides, and, though far from infallible, John could never be called cruel. Hot-headed, stubborn, and clueless, perhaps, but he would not have come all this way to tell Sherlock a lie, however impossible a truth it appeared.

He took a breath.

The silence strained.

“What about your rules?” he asked, a fair amount of mocking, but softer too, and John lifted his gaze, sensing the granted ground.

“Fuck ‘em,” he said, and Sherlock coughed, unprepared for the laugh that snuck up on him. “Someone once told me they were stupid anyway.” His mouth lifted in a shy quirk, Sherlock’s answering in spite of himself.

He looked down at his shoes, shifting the wingtips against the tile, his heart thrumming at the base of his throat as he accepted the decision that was already made the second John stepped through the door. “You do realize you won’t be able to avoid my brother?”

John’s eyes shot up, widening with shock a moment before a disbelieving grin unfurled over his face. “Needs must,” he muttered, shrugging, and Sherlock laughed, relief bubbling up from his chest and cascading down his limbs.

“Did you even _bring_ anything?” he asked, the words woven through a chuckle as he scanned John’s empty hands.

“A little,” John muttered, moving forward as Sherlock’s laugh brightened, more a release of tension than anything. “Just a change of clothes and a toothbrush. One of the butler guys took it upstairs. I’m being very presumptuous and assuming I can still stay the night,” he said, and Sherlock tipped his head, frowning up at the ceiling with a thoughtful hum.

“I suppose it would be rather difficult to get you a ticket at this hour,” he replied, heart flipping at John’s smile, heat climbing his neck as the man took another step.

“I suppose it would,” John murmured, stopping with the tips of their shoes scant inches from touching.

“And it is Christmas Eve,” Sherlock continued, stomach flipping to the ceiling and back as John’s fingertips brushed his.

“That it is.” He slotted through the gaps in Sherlock’s fingers, sliding slowly down toward his palms, and Sherlock swallowed, blinking rather more than necessary as he fought not to look at John’s lips.

“And my mother did hire a terrifying woman to make enough food for an army,” Sherlock babbled breathlessly, and John froze, eyes dipping to the floor as his hands latched onto Sherlock’s. “What?” he asked, absolute terror running through him as John shook his head, his grip involuntarily tightening as the room swam in circles.

“Nothing, just...is this tie too much?”

Sherlock blinked into John’s anxious eyes, lips adrift as his jaw slackened with shock.

“Because I brought more,” John continued to ramble, releasing one of Sherlock’s hands to tug at the burgundy half-windsor, “but this one’s the nicest, and the only other one even _close_ to festive lights up, which didn’t seem-”

In the end, it was easy, like something pulled from muscle memory, his hands steady and heart still as he yanked his fingers from John’s grip, one hand latching onto his lapel while the other landed in his hair, John’s lips still mid-word when Sherlock crashed against them, a tiny gasp of surprise whistling against his cheek.

John’s lips were warm and chapped and tasted like terrible train tea, and it was better than Sherlock had ever imagined, perfection somehow improving when John’s surprise wore off and he moved against him, tipping his head and pulling Sherlock closer with a firm hand around his waist. His other hand cupped Sherlock’s neck, thumb pressing into his jaw, and Sherlock’s fingers dropped to John’s collar, content to let him lead.

He could feel the wasted time between them as John’s hand curled into the back of his jacket, Sherlock’s feet stumbling to keep up as he was turned, leaned against the coat rack in a clamor of metal hangers, the faux fur stole surprisingly comfortable on his neck, but then John flicked his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip, and he stopped thinking altogether. His lips parted, tentatively at first, and then with abandon, pushing back as John’s tongue slunk over his teeth, his mind just beginning to question who really needed food anyway when there was a loud rattle behind them, a gust of fresh air whipping over them as they leapt apart.

Horrific embarrassment notwithstanding, it was comforting to know Mycroft could still be surprised, though he recovered quick enough, reeling his eyes back in and straightening up with a clear of his throat. “Dinner is about to start,” he said, smoothing his jacket with a tug. “Everyone’s gathering in the ballroom.”

Sherlock nodded, a quip about Mycroft being impatient to stuff himself seeming ill-advised. “Right,” he muttered, hand twitching at his side as he fought the urge to flatten his hair. “We’ll, er- We’ll be right there.”

Mycroft lifted a brow, and then turned to John, who was valiantly attempting to look unruffled in spite of the glaring flush down his neck. “John,” Mycroft said with an imperious nod, John’s jaw twitching before he returned the gesture.

“Mycroft,” he replied, the man sparing them each one last glance before retreating, shutting the door softly behind him.

Sherlock stared at the door, blinking dazedly, still trying to wish the past minute away when John drew in a loud breath beside him.

“Well,” he squeaked, voice like a rusty hinge, “I’m not worried about my tie anymore.” He turned, meeting Sherlock’s gaze with a pinched smile, and Sherlock laughed, amusement growing as John hung his shaking head.

“Could’ve been worse,” Sherlock muttered, shrugging a shoulder when John gave him a flat look. “Could’ve been my mother.”

John shuddered, a bleat of disgust pushing through grit teeth. “Don’t even _joke_ about that!” he blustered, and Sherlock chuckled, stretching a hand to John’s, the blond twisting their fingers on contact.

They stood there a moment, staring at their entwined hands, and then smiled, John giving his palm a reassuring squeeze before pulling away.

“Your hair’s a mess,” he muttered, nodding at Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, flicking his curls into what he hoped looked like artful disarray.

“Better?” he asked, and John nodded.

“Me?” He waved his hands up and down his body, smacking Sherlock on the arm when he wrinkled his nose with feigned indecision, and then moved toward the door, pressing his ear to the wood before opening it enough to peek his head into the corridor. “Alright,” he said, whispering for no logical reason, and Sherlock bit back a chuckle, moving to John’s shoulder as they entered the ballroom.

The room didn’t actually fall silent at their entrance, no one even turning, as far as Sherlock could tell, but it felt like walking with a followspot, hair lifting on the back of his neck as he made his way quickly around the outskirts of the crowd, slowing once his family was in view.

“My mother’s name is Violet,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, making a mental note to get John a champagne posthaste, the man growing pale even as he nodded. “My father’s is Siger. Compliment the decorations if you get stuck, and do not, under any circumstances, say anything nice about Ms. Shaw.”

“Which one’s Ms. Shaw?”

“Age-inappropriate cleavage and face like bulldog; it’ll be obvious.” He stopped behind the last group they could use as a shield, grabbing John by the shoulder and twisting him to face him. “Are you sure about this?” he hissed, stomach writhing like the snake pit from those cowboy archaeologist movies they’d marathoned. “Because you don’t- I mean, it’s okay if you’re not-”

“Sherlock,” John said, peeling his hands off his shoulders by the wrists, “I’m fine. Terrified,” he muttered, tipping his head, “but fine.”

Sherlock smiled, curling his fingers up to brush against John’s palms before pulling away. “It’s a good tie,” he said, chuckling at John’s smug grin, and then stepped out from cover, John at his side.

“There you are!” his mother gushed, stretching her hands across Mycroft and reaching for him. “I was about to send out a search party!” She grabbed onto his biceps with a good-natured rattle, hands slipping away as her eyes dropped to John over his shoulder. “Oh, but I suppose you had to get your guest settled,” she said, a pointed look demanding an introduction, and Sherlock sighed, turning out to oblige.

“Mum, Dad”—he waved a hand between them, heart thundering in his ears—“this is John.”

“What, he doesn’t have a surname?” his mother teased, Sherlock saved the trouble as John stepped forward, extending a hand.

“Watson, Mrs. Holmes,” he said, bobbing her delicate hand in the air, signature dangerously charming smile looking at ease on his face. “Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“And you, dear,” Violet said, dipping her head as she released him, a thoughtful frown creasing her forehead. “Watson… Are you the one Sherlock’s been staying with?”

John nodded, perfectly at ease while Sherlock spun down an internal rabbit hole about living in sin. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, now, none of that,” she tutted, swatting a hand through the air. “Call me Violet. Ma’am was my mother, and Mrs. Holmes was my mother-in-law,” she muttered, lifting her brows and rolling her eyes in a private joke, and John laughed, nodding. “It’s so good of you to let Sherlock stay. I hope he’s not giving you too much trouble.”

“Not too much,” John replied, and Mrs. Holmes chuckled, glancing between them.

“How very diplomatic,” she teased. “I’ll ask you again when he’s not here,” she added with a wink, and John laughed, both of them looking up to Mr. Holmes as he placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“The dinner, dear,” he gently reminded, the woman letting out a small squeak before scampering toward the double doors. He then dropped his eyes to John, and Sherlock held his breath, watching John’s shoulders lift. “John,” he said, extending a hand. “Good to meet you.”

John nodded, taking his father’s palm in a practiced grip, Sherlock looking between their faces like it was a championship tennis final. “And you, Mr. Holmes,” he said, expression easy, his eye contact steady as they pulled apart.

“Martha tells me you’re studying medicine,” Mr. Holmes mused, and, if John was taken aback by the insider information trading, he hid it well.

“Yes,” he said, nodding with a smile, “I start my placements next year.”

Mr. Holmes hummed, dipping his head, but his eyes were sharp with study, what was only a few seconds seeming to stretch on endlessly as they waited for the verdict. “Well,” he chirped, mouth splitting with a smile as he bobbed a thumb at Sherlock, “good to know this one has a doctor around.” He chuckled, as did John, but Sherlock only managed a weak smile, distracted as he was with not melting with relief. “Nearly burnt his eyebrows off when he was five, and it’s only gone downhill from there.”

“Dad,” Sherlock snapped, but John was laughing, and it was hard to be mad at anything that caused that, his mouth curling up as his father slung at arm around his shoulder.

“Nothing he doesn’t already know, I’m sure,” he said, clapping him once on the arm before stepping away. “Now, I believe I have to go preside over the festivities,”—he waved a hand toward Sherlock’s mother holding court in front of the dining room doors—“but I’ll see you inside. We’re at the first table, I think. On the left.”

They both nodded, watching him go, Mycroft giving them each a long look before following, and then shuffled a synchronized step closer, both muttering at once.

“Why do _you_ look like you’re about to faint?”

“I think that went pretty well.”

They frowned at one another, piecing together the separate sentences, and then laughed, Sherlock shaking his head while John blew out a breath at the floor.

“Do you really think it went well?” he asked, peering up through his lashes, shoulders relaxing when Sherlock nodded.

“Did I really look like I was gonna faint?”

John’s chuckle bounced as he bobbed his head, and Sherlock looked away, feeling his cheeks darkening. “You really did. Especially with your dad.”

“It was _stressful_!” Sherlock bleated, and John laughed, adjusting the cuff of his shirt.

“Well, it’s over now, at any rate.”

“Until dinner.”

“Until booze.”

“Fair point,” Sherlock agreed, turning to John with a grin, but the man’s expression had fallen into a grim line, narrowed eyes fixed on a point over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“And what do we have here?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes so far back in his head, he saw the profanities he was thinking.

“How thoughtful of you, Sherlock,” Victor crooned, smile tipped with venom. “Taking in the less fortunate on Christmas Eve. It’s like stepping into a Dickens novel.”

“God bless us, everyone,” John answered in a sing-song voice, Victor glaring as a huff of laughter hissed through Sherlock’s nose.

“What do you want, Victor?” he sighed, exhausted and ready to put this to bed once and for all.

Victor frowned at him, chuckling awkwardly as he leaned in, turning his head to exclude John from the conversation. “I told you,” he murmured, breath hot, and Sherlock cringed, craning his neck away. “I want you back.”

Sherlock rolled his wrist where it hung at his side, flattening his palm toward John in subtle signal. “You know what I want, Victor?” he said, dipping his head toward the man, Victor frowning in ignorance. “I want you to live out the remainder of your pathetic existence collecting venereal diseases until you inherit your father’s hairline and are reduced to striking out with bartenders at three-star resort tiki lounges.”

Victor blinked, his jaw dangling like a broken branch still clinging to a tree, and Sherlock pulled away, tilting his head with a smile.

“Understood?” he chirped, and then spun on his heels, grabbing a stunned John’s arm and dragging him backward a few steps before the man had the wherewithal to turn, stumbling along at Sherlock’s side as they worked their way to the front of the crowd.

“Not to be weird,” John murmured as they approached the dining room doors, his mother temporarily decapitated as she peered inside, “but you are _so_ hot right now.”

Sherlock bit his lip, collar burning as he fought back a laugh. “You have a thing for venereal diseases?”

“ _Aaaand_ now it’s weird,” John asserted, Sherlock’s laugh bright and free, like a filter had finally been removed from his chest, but he restrained it to a grin as he drew up to Mycroft’s side, the room trailing into silence when his mother chimed her wedding band against the side of her glass.

“Good evening, everyone!” she announced, the room breaking into applause for some reason, but she raised her hands, smiling in gracious acceptance. “Thank you all so much for coming to our _23rd_ Annual Christmas Eve Ball!”

A pause for more clapping, Sherlock’s sigh earning him twin elbows from his boyfriend and brother.

“We’ve got a big night planned, but, right now, we invite you all to eat, drink, and be irresponsibly merry! So, find your place card, pull up a chair, and enjoy this year’s _spectacular_ five-course feast!” She swung her arms at the doors behind her, which opened at the command, revealing the redecorated dining room to a cascade of oohs and ahhs, but Sherlock was watching his mother, smiling at the pride glowing bright in her cheeks.

“You’re royalty, aren’t you?” John muttered in his ear as they shuffled into the room. “Is it going to cause a scandal? You dating a commoner?”

“Me? No,” Sherlock assured, shaking his head. “But Mycroft has to marry a princess.”

John snorted, opening his mouth to reply when Sherlock’s mother materialized at John’s side, looping her arm through his, his forearm lifting instinctively.

“A gentleman!” she trumpeted in mock surprise, folding her hand over John’s arm as well, and John chuckled, bowing his head.

“Milady,” he obliged, Sherlock shaking his head as his mother giggled.

“Oh, Sherlock, you won’t mind if I steal him for dinner, will you?” she asked, and Sherlock glanced at John, waiting for the subtle dip of his head before smiling.

“Course not,” he assured, twitching a shoulder. “I was getting tired of him anyway.”

“Likewise,” John quipped, and Mrs. Holmes laughed, looking between them.

“Oh, you two! You’ll be sitting next to Mycroft then, dear,” she added, all humor abandoned, Sherlock’s pleading expression meeting a stern slate, and then the back of her head as she turned away, only John’s smug smirk left to _not_ comfort him.

“Enjoy,” he mouthed, winking over his shoulder, and then his attention was pulled away by his companion, Sherlock left to glare at their backs as he followed.

The head of the table was empty, leaving John and Sherlock’s father to form the endcaps, his mother placed beside John, and Sherlock on his father’s left, slotted between him and Mycroft. The unfortunate—though he did not doubt designed—effect was John being pinned in the corner by Sherlock’s parents, but he seemed perfectly capable, his father watching with an idle smile as John pulled Mrs. Holmes’ chair out.

“You must be hungry,” she said, patting John’s arm as he sat down. “Travelling on Christmas Eve is _horrendous_ , even on the train. We did that once, dear, remember?” She turned to her husband, barely giving him time to nod before continuing. “We were going to Ireland-”

“Wales, dear.”

“Was it Wales?”

“We took the jet to Ireland.”

“Oh, that’s right, we were going to Wales,” she continued, flapping a hand in the air as John mouthed “The jet?” over her shoulder.

Sherlock shrugged.

John rolled his eyes.

“And we thought we’d take the train—save the hassle of the airport, you know—but if it didn’t take twice as long! If it’s not the weather, it’s the machinery, though I’d rather that sort of thing happen on the ground, if I could pick.” She looked around the group with a laugh, assuming their agreement. “We were so worried you weren’t going to make it, what with the weather delay and all.”

John frowned, looking to him, but Sherlock didn’t have any answers either, shaking his head minutely. “The...weather delay?” John ventured, and Mrs. Holmes nodded, oblivious to their confusion.

“Yes, Mike told us your guest had been delayed at the train station,” she directed to Sherlock, who saw his brother stiffen in his peripheral vision. “We didn’t want to upset you by asking; you were in such a foul mood already.”

“I wasn’t-” Sherlock started, but was censored by a look from his mother, who thankfully missed the guilty droop of John’s chin.

“Oh, here we go!” she trumpeted, clapping her hands beneath her chin and bouncing in her chair, watching the first round of waiters appear carrying trays loaded with salads, and conversation waned for a moment, Sherlock ducking his head to whisper toward Mycroft’s shoulder.

“You said you’d told them he wasn’t coming.”

“Did I?” Mycroft mused, watching the dinner service with polite interest. “I must have misunderstood.”

Sherlock glared at the side of his face, knowing full well his brother would never admit to misunderstanding _anything_ , even if he had. “What was it?” he asked, mind jumping the usual three steps ahead. “CCTV cameras at the station? Alert on his credit card?”

“What _are_ you-”

“How did you know he’d changed his mind?” Sherlock interjected, leaning back an impatient second for the server to lower their salads to the gilded charger plates. “The GPS on his phone? A bug? Did you _bug_ our phones!?”

“Oh, please, Sherlock, nothing so sinister as _that_!”

“How, then?”

Mycroft sighed into the middle distance, and then shook his head, fixing Sherlock was an unusually soft gaze. “I suppose one would have to call it”—his eyes lifted toward the end of the table—“faith.”

Sherlock frowned, turning to follow his brother’s eyeline.

John was bent over his salad plate, fork in hand, the prongs bobbing up and down in the air as Mrs. Holmes appeared to be alternating between encouraging him to eat and continuing a story. He was listening intently, nodding and smiling as appropriate, and Sherlock felt an emotion he’d almost abandoned flare up from an ember to a flame, an inferno, a conflagration wiping out all remnants of doubt and fear.

And that was when John looked at him, confusion pinching the bridge of his nose a moment before he smiled, a soft tilt of his lips that nevertheless glowed, Sherlock just returning the gesture before John was pulled once more into his mother’s thrall, laughing as he took a first bite at her urging.

He turned back to Mycroft, but his brother was pointedly ignoring him, eating his salad with all the focus of defusing a bomb, and Sherlock turned his attention to the same, a helpless smile on his face as he rolled a beet across the bed of arugula.

It seemed some rules really were made to be broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVEN MORE ON TO THE EPILOGUE!!!
> 
> (after a word from our sponsors)  
> Interested in a new Sherlock/fandom convention in Minneapolis next summer? Mssmithlove and a glorious gang of geeks are working hard to bring one to life, so please take a hot two minutes to complete [**this survey**](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/SherlockCon) and help us tailor-make the experience as much as possible.


	22. Epilogue

Sherlock flung himself through the door of 221B, gasping in the warm air to thaw his frigid lungs. “Bloody-” he muttered, breaking off with a shiver as he hung up his snow-damp hat and coat, kicking his shoes off onto the mat, and then paused, looking around the silent foyer with a frown. “Hello?” he called, tipping his head toward Mrs. Hudson’s door, but no sound answered him. Shrugging, he started up the stairs, thinking longingly of the slippers beside his chair—a Christmas present from John for his chronically cold feet. “John?” he beckoned, stopping on the landing when the flat remained silent, tipping his chin toward the ceiling. “John?”

Nothing, not even the creak of a floorboard, and Sherlock pulled out his mobile, grumbling to himself, because, yes, he’d said he didn’t want a  _ party _ , but that didn’t mean he wanted to spend his birthday-

“SURPRISE!”

He jumped, phone slipping through his fingers and spiraling into the air, tan fingers lunging out to snatch it from the jaws of shattering death.

“See?” John said, clapping Sherlock’s mobile against his opposite palm, a smug smile turned over his shoulder. “Told you. Cough up.” He curled the fingers of his free hand, and Mycroft stepped forward with a grimace, slapping down a twenty pound note.

“Wha-What,” Sherlock stammered, surveying the room, still not sure how much of the scene was real.

For starters, the oddest assortment of people were collected in his living room, Mrs. Hudson and John well within the realm of possibility, but his parents and brother didn’t seem like they ought to exist on the same plane as his friends—Irene, Mike, Mary, Molly, and Greg all laughing as they pulled kazoos from their mouths. Then there were the decorations, the blue and silver balloons tasteful enough, but the pearlescent rainbow ‘Happy Birthday’ sign had Irene written all over it, and the woman smiled as he shook his head at it, confirming as much.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart!” his mother crooned, rushing out from the group to lock her arms around him, his father shuffling up behind. “Were you surprised? Mike didn’t think you would be.”

“What?” Mike said, and Mrs. Holmes turned, scolding herself with a shake of her head.

“Sorry, dear, I meant Mycroft.”

“If you would just  _ use _ my name-”

“How about you’re Mike A”—John pointed at Mike—“and you’re Mike B.”

Mycroft quirked a brow. “And why am  _ I _ Mike  _ B _ ?”

“Because Mike  _ A _ supports me in my surprise party endeavors,” John quipped with a grin, the group chuckling as Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I, er-” Sherlock broke in, clearing his throat and projecting for the crowd. “Yes, I’m-I’m surprised.” His words were met with broad smiles and smug elbows to ribcages, his gaze zeroing in on Molly’s smirk.

“That’s why you couldn’t get coffee,” he deduced, and Molly dipped her chin, proud as spiked punch.

“Mary and I came over early to help decorate”—she nodded to the blond beside her, the two thick as mercenaries since Mary had moved in after Christmas—“and tidy up a bit. John  _ said _ you’d get suspicious if he did it.”

“We tidy on Wednesdays, I told you this,” John sighed, the argument evidently already tired. “It’s on the calendar.”

“Well, I suggest you add ‘Search Sherlock’s lab for teacups’,” Irene huffed, nose wrinkling as she glanced down the corridor to what was fast becoming a lab/guest room as Sherlock’s things migrated upstairs. “I swear something was  _ living _ in one of them.”

“Did you-” Sherlock began, but John cut him off with a shake of his head, assuring the safety of his fingernail clippings experiment.

“What are we all standing around for!” Mrs. Hudson cajoled, throwing her hands in the air and crossing toward the kitchen. “I didn’t spend all day on this cake for it to dry out on the counter!”

“I thought we ordered a cake?” Greg asked, followed swiftly by Molly’s hushed “ _ Why _ ?”, and Mrs. Hudson turned in the doorway, rattling a finger at him.

“Next time,  _ you _ can pick it up from the bakery then,” she snipped, Greg having the good sense to avert his gaze. “Had to go halfway across  _ London _ !”

“Martha,” Mrs. Holmes soothed, following after her as the woman disappeared into the kitchen, “you said yourself, they make the best red velvet!”

“Could’ve just had chocolate.” Mrs. Hudson’s grumbling carried through the open door. “Only difference is food coloring.”

“Well, that I simply  _ cannot _ abide,” Mr. Holmes muttered, smiling down as he clapped a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, Sherlock,” he bade, ruffling his hair as he pulled away, marching into the red velvet discourse like a soldier off to battle.

As the adults abandoned him, his friends abandoned all decorum, crashing into him like a raging, hugging mob, his ears ringing with “Happy birthday”s from all directions.

“Alright, alright, get off!”

“Thought you’d wanna wait until we left for that,” Irene teased, winking as Sherlock rolled his eyes, fighting back a blush when John searched out his gaze to lift a brow, “but enough of this. To the cake!” She lifted a fist in the air, leading the charge in a line, everyone tousling his hair as they passed like a good luck ritual, and he shook his head at their backs, John lingering behind to chuckle at his side.

“I thought we said no presents,” Sherlock accused, recalling a very clear agreement that Christmas and Valentine’s Day were already close enough together without throwing his birthday into the mix, especially such a dramatic Christmas as  _ that _ .

“We did,” John replied, dipping a deep nod. “I didn’t get you a present.” He chuckled at Sherlock’s flat look, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and turning him toward the window. “I got you a  _ party _ ”—he waved a hand at the banner he was sure Irene had intended to be aggressively gay— “and a card”—he pointed to a red envelope on the mantle, the bulk of the gifts arranged on the coffee table in a pile of glittering paper and bows. “No presents.” He beamed, the childlike pride taken in his subterfuge wiping out Sherlock’s mild frustration.

Begrudgingly, he smiled, John chuckling as he stepped in front of him, wrapping one arm around his waist and taking his hand with the other.

“Although,” he purred, Sherlock’s knees instantly weak, his condition worsening as John tangled their fingers together, “I do have  _ something _ for you later.”

“Oh?” Sherlock murmured, trying to be coy, but John couldn’t miss the thumping of his heart as he lifted their clasped hands between their chests, brushing his lips against the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“Mhmm,” he hummed against the skin, and Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowing through a thick throat.

“Can I get a hint?” he croaked, and John huffed a laugh, planting a kiss to one of Sherlock’s knuckles before returning his hand to his side.

“Now where would be the fun in that?” His grin blurred as he leaned in, smiling against Sherlock’s mouth, the taste of tea and curry and home on his lips, and Sherlock pushed a hand up into his hair, the blond strands curling at the tips where they’d been left to grow too long. “Happy birthday, Sherlock,” John whispered into the corner of his mouth as they parted, tucking a dark curl behind Sherlock’s ear, his blue eyes bright behind golden lashes, and then, as all tender moments in Sherlock’s life were destined to end…

“GAYYYYYYYY!”

“ _ IRENE _ !?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock murmured back at him, wrapping his arm tight around John’s as they watched Mary ping a plastic fork off Irene’s head, “it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaand now it's over. For realsies. It's little sad, wow, I wasn't expecting this!
> 
> Anyway, kudos to everyone who followed along on this journey, a warm hello/goodbye to all those who waited for the 'Complete' check mark of destiny, and a heartfelt thank you to you all.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at prettysherlocksoldier, or on Twitter @consultingdr221!


End file.
